A Minor Bird
by Bru21
Summary: Collection of Oneshots based off Sucre's album 'A Minor Bird'; Ch.9 Persuasion: Am I loosing my mind, or regaining it? Why won't you look at me? "Clint, look at me."
1. Say Something

Well, here goes!I'm extremely nervous in submitting into this fandom, cause quite frankly this isn't the greatest story, and I'm almost overwhelmed with how many good stories there are :3However, it was eating the inside of me to post...something, and this was the best I could quickly come together with in the alloted time that my aptience kinda gave me, so...sorry for tainting such a talented fandom :/

I absolutely love Hawkeye, and had to write something~! I also love the relationship between him and Natasha, whether it's romantic or just damn close-knit. There are a lot of good stories out there that explore their dynamic so much better than this uncreative one, but like I said...I had to post something! T_T So here goes *crosses figners*

This is the closest to a song fic as I'll ever get, I'll explain more in the Author's Note...

Disclaimer: I absolutely own nothing!

* * *

_Say Something _

_Everyone thinks you're gone_

_ And they're right, Baby.. _

_You're gone. _

_I'll never see you again. _

_Unless you wake up holding my hand_

* * *

"Have you seen Agent Barton?"

Steve jumped a bit, his focus so intent on his book that he'd hardly noticed the approaching agent until she'd alerted him to her presence. Not that he'd probably have caught onto her without the distraction of a book in hand.

He blinked, considering her question and thinking as far back as the moment he got up, trying to recall the archer.

"No...no, I haven't. Did you need him for something?"

She didn't answer, instead taking a few steps towards the seated captain to better look at the material in front of him.

Her eyes quickly scanned the first sentence, a brow raising as she reasoned and asked, "Catcher in the Rye?"

He darted his eyes between her and the book.

"Ah, y-yeah...This whole...trying to catch myself up with today is...a little overwhelming. Tony tried to introduce me to that pad thing-" Natasha frowned a moment before understanding he meant an 'Ipad', "but, it just...it's all a little too fast. So-" He raised the book momentarily, shrugging off the rest of his statement.

"Ah, you're trying to slowly catch up."

"Starting with...books. Books, I can grasp at a bit better than-" He motioned a box that Natasha again took to mean an Ipad. Nodding, she turned on her heels, thanking him anyway.

* * *

Natasha wasn't beneath swallowing her pride and asking, honestly, the last two people she wanted to interact with. It was in her job description to interrogate and talk, and she hardly ever walked away from a conversation without the answers she sought for, unless they weren't there to begin with. This had lead to some unfavorable conversations, not unlike the one she knew she was about to have.

She respected , that was a given. The proposed housing condition at first seemed to invite chaos, but in actuality was shaping up to be exactly as it was proposed to- a team-building effort. This experience of living in with the doctor also helped improve any earlier cautions and the tension was not nearly as strong between the two as it had been. It was still there, though.

And as far as personality and compatibility went, she flat out hated Tony Stark.

Stark noticed her first, or acknowledged her by lifting his head from whatever tiny model had caught his attention momentarily, while Banner hesitated a moment longer from jotting down some final notes before greeting her as well as she slipped inside the lab.

"Let me guess, you've lost your parakeet and want to know if we've seen him fly by any time soon?" Stark prodded. Standing in the room only for a few seconds and already irritated with his presence, she refused to acknowledge his comment or even look at him. She instead turned to Banner, her question clear upon her face.

"Ah, n-no..." The scientist stammered, shaking his head lightly as he pulled off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"We haven't seen him."

Natasha nodded in gratitude, trying to be pleasant, and turned to leave, thankful to get out of that room without so much as a word.

Stark didn't think quite the same as Natasha.

"You should get him a bell. Or a leash," He added his two-bit sense is, and Natasha fought every urge to just bodily harm him in some way.

Showing restraint that only someone of her kind could, she let the glass door sliding behind her act as a final slap to silence the billionaire.

* * *

A good twenty minutes later and she had no lead on her partner's whereabouts. She'd started with the obvious spots-training rooms, his quarters, her quarters, the roof, anyplace high with a vantage point. She'd gotten creative and, just to humor her curiosity, tapped into security cameras in surrounding buildings from Stark's computer, checking the corners of rooftops just in case her partner had flown himself on one of those ledges for a change in scenery.

Not a trace.

To blow off some steam and agitation, she trained for two hours, kicking and punching the shit out of whatever expensive equipment she could in the exercise room. She cleared her mind and focused on one sole goal (break or damage something beyond repair so that Stark was forced to buy an entirely new equipment piece) and accomplished said goal. She also, purposely, refused to look at any clocks while she trained, hoping to not become dependant or concerned with it so much.

This didn't help, as she could easily calculate by looking at the sun's position through the glass walls, or simply timing herself, what time it was. Roughly, give or take a minute or two, it was a quarter past five.

She took her time cooling off, resisting the urge to check anywhere without a proper shower. She even spent a minute or two longer in said shower, letting the conditioner soak in before rinsing, just wasting time leisurely.

When she made her way towards the loft area of the declared-team level (The top layer that sat above the separate quarter levels for each team member, with the training level serving as the basement to their half of the tower), she was surprised but didn't let it show that everyone was present. Except him.

Even Pepper had made an appearance, though it was strictly business as she tried to convince Stark, who would only hear half of it before discarding the files she'd painstakingly organized and alphabetized for him on her way over here across the counter, strewn without so much as a care.

Natasha said nothing, but her eyes betrayed her. She watched the couple intently, taking in their intimate moments (Stark had no shame in front of anyone) and watching with a drawn breadth and the two indulged in whispers and giggles. Her mouth twitched in slight disgust, but Banner saw through it.

"Ever find Agent Barton?" He cut in, distracting Natasha away from the couple. She shook her head in response, but again her eyes flashed something different-a thank you. They both knew if Tony had caught even the tiniest hint of emotion, she'd never hear the end of it. Banner smirked knowingly, then nodded empathetically as he turned to interrupt Tony for a moment to discuss a last-minute, detailed thought he'd had on a spur of the moment.

Steve was lounged on the couch, legs up as he flipped a page. Judging by the thickness of it, Natasha suspected it wasn't the same book as before. Pepper had gone to pour herself another drink while Banner and Stark lit up in some ridiculous conversation that, despite all her training and intelligence, Natasha could not follow.

Thor was eating...something. Again, Natasha felt the failure of her field in that she couldn't identify all that Thor had combined from heir stocked pantry to create. In all honesty, it looked like either a lasagna stashed between a sandwich and alfredo pasta, or a Chitauri.

It was Pepper who nonchalantly asked, to no one in particular and everyone present, "Where's Clint?"

Banner and Steve both shot a quick glance to Natasha, who ignored both. Tony shrugged, smiling at the mere appearance of alcohol that was in Pepper's hand.

"I don't know. Maybe he...flew the coop!"

The bird jokes were getting annoying, and Natasha almost said something but Banner cut her off.

"Has...anyone tried asking Jarvis?"

Pepper looked between Tony and Banner, muttering more so tot he former, "Has he been missing for awhile now?"

"I don't know, just all day," Tony shrugged off, stealing a shot of Pepper's drink despite her half-hearted efforts to pry it away from him.

"Well, isn't that kind of serious-" Pepper began, like a worried team mom that she'd unknowingly and almost naturally fitted into the role to be, but Natasha cut her off, quickly demanding, "Jarvis?"

A moment's hesitation, then a monatomic response, "Yes, Agent Romanov?"

"Can you display security camera footage earlier this morning?"

"How far shall I go back?"

Natasha thought a moment.

"Three or four should be fine."

Tony made some side remark, appalled that anyone would be awake at that hour, though Pepper reminded him he usually didn't go to sleep until six anyway. Natasha ignored them and focused her eyes on the blank screen that blinked alive with activity. She had a hunch, she just hoped she was wrong...

The television showed the very loft they were in, the time at the corner reading three AM, minutes ticking away like seconds as Jarvis sped through the tape. Again, Tony made some remark on why Jarvis was following orders not directly given by him, but everyone else was as intently watching the screen as Natasha was.

Sure enough, as three forty-five rolled around, so did a shadowed figure along the wall. The lighting was dark and the screen was hard to make out, yet unmistakingly it was Clint Barton. More so disturbingly, to Natasha in any case, was what was slung over his shoulder.

A duffle bag and his bow and quiver.

The two agents were light packers as it was, and upon moving into the tower (Begrudgingly-Fury had insisted, rather ordered, that they take up the offer) they carried less between the two of them than Banner had in a single suitcase. Even then, though, what Barton carried was only a portion of his packing-a light enough supply to sustain him for a trip.

He was on a mission.

Banner, being the observant fellow that he was, instantly looked to Natasha and easily read that her expression, as masked as it was, still was emitting dangerous irritation and anger. Steve, being the closest to her, even heard her knuckles pop as her fists tightened. Thor thought to say something, but stopped when he caught the expression on both Steve and Bruce's faces, stopping mid sentence before he'd even opened his mouth.

Tony had absolutely no tact and easily mouthed off some remark.

"Well, what to you know. The hawk flies solo. Guess we can all sleep better now, right? Knowing that he's learned to open the cage all by himself and-"

His words were lost as Natasha brushed past him, heatedly, and stormed out of the den, hell bent towards the elevator. Stunned and, for once, silent, Tony hesitated a moment before sighing.

"Right, Jarvis,"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do a scanning check for any identification of Agent Barton in any street cameras between the Stark Tower and, oh, I don't know, where ever he's intending to go. Track his path and see where it leads us."

"On it, sir."

"Is...everything alright?" Pepper asked, confused at what exactly just happened.

Tony nodded, but said nothing as he made his way in the opposite direction of Natasha.

Thor momentarily lost his appetite, unable to take another bite as the awkward silence settled in. Steve pretended to return to reading, but he reread the same passage several times over before he shut the book, got up, and called it a night. Banner was quick to follow.

Feeling like she completely missed something, Pepper waved her hands in defeat and glided off after Tony, dazed as ever.

Thor returned to his sandwich, because he never really did loose his appetite, but it still didn't settle quite as right as it did before.

* * *

_You stole my heart _

_And in the dark you said that you were right there. _

_You're not. _

_I can't believe you again. _

_And so I wake up, I have to pretend_

* * *

Three days passed and Natasha sat up, well into the morning, wearing a deep scowl. Her arms were crossed and she was dressed in full uniform, her back straight as she watched the blurred lights outside the glass windows. Everyone was long since gone to sleep, and even most of the machines seemed to be hibernating, the only lights being from outside and the occasional blue light of an off-switched appliance.

The conversation with Fury that had followed the moment she'd departed from the group several nights ago hadn't exactly been comforting. It'd taken place over a com link and Natasha hadn't bothered to hide back any emotion or anger, because if there was one person she could unleash her true feelings on, it was Clint. And in his absence, the next best thing was Fury himself.

"You let him go on a mission?"

"I'm not going to ask how you came by that information, seeing as you would find out eventually. I will advise, Agent Romanov, that you do not see any further into this-"

"Where is he?"

"I can't tell you." He emphasized, not exactly pleased that she'd cut him off.

"Don't pull SHIELD clearance on me, Director Fury. You know damn well there's hardly anything that I don't have clearance towards and you can expect I'll-"

"I can't tell you, Agent, not because of standard procedure-"

"Then why not? "

"-As a favor."

She didn't respond immediately at that, but when she did, she didn't bother trying to cover up her disbelief.

"What?"

"I was asked as a favor not to inform you of any details. Just...wait patiently, agent. He'll be back shortly."

And the line was cut.

* * *

The click of the door was subtle and quiet, but it was there. She didn't turn around but she listened for his footsteps. Three steps in, he was rounding the loft corner. Four steps in, he knew he wasn't alone.

He knew she was there, waiting for him, and he didn't bother trying to hide it or sneak past her. He set his travel bag down with a soft thud, his quiver and bow following, and he stood there, absolutely still, for a moment.

No lights were on but the room was lit blue by the moon and she wasn't exactly hidden, sitting in plain view with her back to him on the couch. She took a deep breath in, her face unreadable, just as she turned around.

And all hell broke loose.

* * *

He almost winced, but didn't, when she whipped around, her eyes flashing dangerously. For a brief moment, she looked ready to cry. But he knew better, and that passing thought did just that-passed.

"You went on a mission."

No reason in arguing the obvious.

"Yep." He retorted. He hid how tired he sounded. He really wanted nothing more than to walk to his room and sleep, but this conversation was inevitable, and would be waiting for him in the morning regardless. Not that Natasha was just about to let it be put on hold anyway.

"You didn't even tell me?" Her voice was rising, and he almost thought to ask her to lower it, warning she might wake the others. But, he knew better than to try to reason that with her. She'd probably shoot him just for suggesting it.

"It was a short mission, nothing big-"

"-That you failed to mention."

Just like a woman, always circling the conversation back to one thing. He inhaled deeply, conscious of how much pressure he could put on his chest before his lungs expanded too far and hit a sore rib, so his exhale was slow and drawn out. He rubbed at his eyes, hoping Natasha would feel concerned and notice that he was tired. Maybe she'd show compassion and agree to letting him sleep and continue this argument in the morning.

Like hell she'd pity him.

"And you instructed Fury not to tell me."

"No, I requested the mission, and happened to mention your involvement was unnecessary." He corrected, slightly agitated the more he thought about sleep and the more he realized he wanted it.

"Clint," She pleaded. It was the closest link to intimacy the two had-the shared bond of personal names. Few others called him by his first name, and even less dared to use a nickname on her. Despite the hidden meaning, though, it came out harsher than usual and to his tired ears, it sounded more like she'd spat the name rather than speak it. Then again, that might also have been caused by the throbbing in his head already. The pain medications he'd been prescribed had kicked in hours ago and were wearing off. So much for SHIELD having the best medics around...

"We're just recovering from the attack by the Chitauri. It's barely been two weeks, what the hell are you doing taking a mission? How'd Fury let you take one? We haven't been cleared for missions yet, we're still on recovery!"

Clint shrugged, refusing to look at Natasha, though it didn't matter. It was too dark to see her eyes anyway.

"I'm fine. Fury gave me clearance himself."

"So you lied and went behind my back, too?"

God, he was tired. His knee twitched and he felt it buckling. He needed to lay down soon, but Natasha wasn't about to let him go.

"I didn't lie, Ta-"

"Enough, damn it!" She yelled.

So much for not waking the others.

"Tasha, please, let's talk about this in the morning-" He bent to pick at his bag and bow, hoping to settle it at that, but Natasha wasn't having any of that. In a few short strides, she was directly in front of him, well past the boundaries of personal space and directly in his face, blocking his retreat.

"You want to tell me what the hell is really going on?"

Her voice wasn't a shout, but it was still loud and buzzed in his already irritated ears. He lifted a hand to rub at his temples, blinking to clear his vision. He really needed to sit down, feeling the bandages around his waist inevitably soaking through his vest. Another check to add to the list of things the SHIELD agents could really improve on-dressing wounds.

"Natasha, enough. I'm done, let me-"

"No, Clint. You can't do this, you can't just push me aside-" To emphasize her meaning, she touched her hands to his waist. It was a brief contact and she meant nothing by it, but suddenly she found her fingertips soaked. Instead of feeling the scratchy wool of his vest, she was tracing her nails lightly over a sponge, absorbed beyond capacity of something that she knew to be blood.

Clint closed his eyes, releasing the tension in his shoulders. He was beyond hiding it from Natasha now.

"Nat, it's nothing, I'm fi-"

"What the hell is this?" She yelled, pressing her fingers gently against the wound. Clint grunted before snapping a hand up to catch her wrist.

"Tasha, leave it. I'm going to-"

"Clint, what-?"

He didn't finish his sentence, toppling over to the side and tripping over his own feet. He almost crashed into the ground before Natasha caught him, slumping him against her just as lights flicked on, all too bright and too fast.

"What's going on?"

It was Steve, and in an instant he was by Natasha's side, shifting the other man's weight onto his shoulder and off of Natasha. Horrified and slightly stunned, Natasha quickly calmed herself and stood with Steve, helping to carry Clint who had slipped unconscious in that moment.

"What..? Natasha? Steve, is that...Barton?" Banner was at the doorway, Thor looming over him, trying to look in as well. Natasha snapped at the duo to clear the way, heeding no second thoughts to any consequence whatsoever in raising her voice. Tony met them in the hallway.

"So, he's back."

Natasha almost snapped at Tony to shut it, but Clint stirred and as a reaction she tugged more of his weight onto her. Steve, thankfully, jumped in to silence Tony.

"Call a doctor, Stark."

He didn't argue.

* * *

Clint moaned and Natasha fumbled with a handle to the closest room, which happened to be Steve's. The trio ducked into the room, gently propping Clint onto the bed as Natasha heaved a sigh, sitting beside the archer as al her emotions and adrenaline caught up to her. Steve stood for only a moment more before off-handedly remarking that he'd look around for a first aid kit.

The lights switched on and Natasha assessed the wound that was bleeding through on Clint. It was his left side, and it was a larger stain than she'd first thought. Knowing he'd need to remove his shirt, she fumbled on top of him, cautious not to move him too much and struggling to lift the shirt over his head. He had an undershirt, but the material was thin and ruined and she didn't bother with maneuvering it off of him, instead settling with simply ripping it apart.

This only served to reveal a mass of bruises and medical tape and gauze that she hadn't been expecting, and if he'd been awake, she would have hit him or screamed at him or cause some form of repercussion on him.

But he wasn't awake, and he wasn't even trying to make light of the situation, or convince her it wasn't as bad as it looked. So she sat there, a quiet mess as thoughts racked through her brain, and waited for the doctor.

* * *

_Hit where it hurts _

_Is this what I deserve? _

_A mouthful of dirt _

_Well I curse the very day that we met _

_So now you know and lay in the bed that you made_

* * *

Steve gave up after an hour of trying to coax Natasha to go to bed while Barton slept. The doctor had arrived not but ten minutes after Stark had made the call, though there was little he could do. The wounds had been treated, he made note of, and aside from some re-bandaging and a couple of pain meds, he had little to contribute. He did offer his expert consent that the man should be left to sleep it off and take it easy when he did wake up. Bed rest wouldn't kill him, but moving too much might.

Not daring to move him, Barton was left in Steve's room, the former occupant taking a pillow and a blanket and moving to the couch in the den to give the agents some room. His final advice was a warning to Natasha to get some sleep, though he knew she'd ignore him. She did.

She sat erectly up in the small armchair in the corner of the room nearly half the night, watching Clint's chest rise slowly, lightly, and then settle. The room was still rather empty and impersonal, save a few keepsakes and photos, some files and the occasional catered laundry. Steve almost had less to his name than the agents, though that was to be expected of someone who hadn't joined the living for quite yet even a year now.

She wasn't immortal, though, and as desperate as she tried, she was eventually overcome by sleep. The last couple of days had eluded her of the pleasure-the last decent night she'd slept had been the night before Barton had taken his mission, and even then she was a light sleeper that got by on few hours.

* * *

So, she wasn't all that surprised to wake well into the morning, the room lit up brightly by the sun, finding she'd slept well over six hours.

She wasn't surprised at that, but rather the fact that she bed before her was empty, the patient missing. She was more hurt than anything and, jumping from the armchair, she wasted no time in making her way to the door. She almost didn't pick up on the fact that sometime throughout the night, a blanket had been spread over her-almost.

She stormed from the Captain's room, not even caring to lighten her footsteps as they stamped, flashing a warning to the oncoming room, making her way directly past the loft.

Steve was still asleep, or had been, until the moment she slammed the door abruptly behind her, causing him to jump awake from his cocoon on the couch.

She was furious that her partner could worry about her and not even think about himself. She was hell bent on dragging his ass back inside, because she had a pretty damn good idea where he'd stumbled off to, and despite all his skill and training, even he couldn't get very far without irritating those wounds of his.

* * *

Just as suspected, she caught the man perched on the roof. He had a knee propped up, his elbow leaning against it while his other foot and hand dangled off the side, seated just at the edge of the roof. Anger flared in her for a moment at how careless he was being, but then dissipated when he noticed her and tried to greet her with a weak smile, shifting his body and turning away from the ledge to nod in greeting at her.

She then had half a mind to slap him and push him over the roof, and the restraint showed on her behalf was remarkable that she didn't.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"It's too stuffy in there," He remarked. It was impersonal and merely a fact, not an opinion. He didn't call her by any name, because she hadn't used his and because he knew she was mad. He also knew he couldn't really fix that, so he waited for her to say something, if just to spare him from aggravating her further if only for another moment.

"Barton," she snapped finally, "I have half a mind to throw you off this roof." And she did, and she could. He knew that. Worse yet, he wouldn't have even struggled if she did decide to.

"But...right now, you need to be resting," she pleaded. She still sounded angry, but the harsh sharpness in her words were replaced with concern, though it was still laced with disapproval.

"I know," He hesitated a moment, thinking whether it was safe to call her by one of the names reserved only for him, but thought against it. That might just set her off again, and she already looked in more pain than he'd like to admit. It was better to just comply with her, even if only half way.

"I just can't lay still," and she knew something was wrong. He had enough patience and training to know and understand when limits had been reached. If he was hurt, he wasn't one to argue and fuss the entire time. That was more her style. He'd calmly wait out the recovery and be back in no time, fully healed and rested.

That's what made this escapade all that much worse in her eyes.

"Clint," she cooed, finally letting her anger flush out as she approached him. In a few steps, she was beside him, knelt, with a hand on his shoulder. Her face was unreadable but her voice betrayed her.

"Tell me what's wrong."

He said nothing, his eyes darting across her face, looking for something. They found nothing. Her eyes were blank and her mouth tightened so not even the slightest quiver escaped. If he hadn't heard her right, she could have easily fooled him to thinking she didn't care at all.

"Say something..." She finally begged, half whispering.

After a moment, he slowly nodded.

"I'll go inside..." He brought his hands up, taking her own in his before bringing it down, off of his shoulder. "But, I can't tell you what's wrong. Not yet."

And she understood. Because he didn't want to share and she wouldn't make him. And because he sounded more in pain admitting that something was wrong than he did lying about his health. Those were physical wounds, and she knew a good week or two of actual rest and he'd be good as new. It was the emotional scars, what he wasn't ready to reveal, that would take time. She wasn't as patient as him, but she could wait.

She stood, nodding as she did so and reaching her hands down to help him stand. He fit himself against her, leaning on her for support. He'd made it fine to the roof when he'd woken, but he wasn't beneath taking her help when offered and he knew it'd be easier just to accept it that fight it. It'd put her at ease, too, anyway.

* * *

Steve jumped again when the door opened and in walked Barton, leaning heavily against Natasha. Banner was indulging in breakfast at the counter, watching the pair quietly as they exited the room as quietly as they'd entered. Steve, baffled, looked between the doorway the two had disappeared behind, and Banner.

He almost asked what happened, but the scientist shrugged prematurely, having no answers for the captain, so instead he kept his mouth shut. Rubbing at his eyes, he reached for his book.

* * *

Not wanting to overstay the hospitality of the Captain, Barton insisted he could make the trip to his own room. Natasha refused, seeing as Barton's quarters were the farthest. They compromised with her room.

She spread him out on the bed, much like the previous night, and eyed his bandages. They were rust colored and looked to be needed changed, but Barton shook his head when she offered.

"I'm tired. Let me sleep, I'll change them when I wake up."

"We'll change them," She insisted. He could hide the truth from her all she wanted, but she'd be damned if she didn't stick to him like glue these next few days. He didn't argue, sighing and conscious of the pressure against his lungs, easing into the exhale. Natasha dropped a hand on his shoulder, seating next to him as he shifted his neck comfortably on a pillow. For a minute, neither talked at they just sat like that.

"You're not going anywhere." It wasn't a question, and he wasn't offering. He knew her, and he knew whether he asked her to or not, she'd stay by him. She didn't nod because the flicker of her eyes confirmed it and he again tried to adjust his head.

"You'll cramp up your legs if you sit like that."

Her protests came too late as he started shimming over, trying to make room on the mattress for her to slip into. Her hands shot to his sides, helping him shift over before she quickly slipped next to him, squeezing herself beside him and trying to take up as little room as possible. She wanted him to stop moving and her hands gently tugged at his arm to stop moving, as she was comfortable and settled, him having to move minimal distance for her.

His head was cocked to the side to watch her, she laying on her side facing him while he was on his back, and for a long time neither said anything. Finally, he closed his eyes and let out a final, long breadth.

"Thank you," He finally added, sincerely. He meant more than just her staying with him, or even helping him last night. He also meant for caring for him, all this time, and for not pushing him to talk. Because she knew he would, eventually, and because he would, eventually.

She said nothing, snuggling her head comfortably against her arm as she blinked a few more times, watching him to make sure he slipped into sleep before she did the same.

* * *

**A/N: **To start, the song is by Sucre (Stacy King, of 'Eisley', which is one of my favorite bands and I highly recommend both it and her~!) and this whole one shot formed off that song (Which does it no justice). Originally, this story was going to be multiply chapters-where the lyrics break the story up were all individual chapters. Also originally, each chapter was going to incorporate one song off of Sucre's album, 'A Minor Bird', and it was gonig to be a multi-fic containing 11 chapters.

But, 'Say Something' just seemed to work for this entire story, so I condensed it all into a ridiculously long one-shot. To be completely honest, a part of me wants to make this a string of oneshots, ranging in mood and length, and reach that goal of eleven chapters, oneshots, each based off a song from her album. That really depends on if I gain the confidence to write more...which isn't a high hope XD Anyway~ I really hope someone, anywhere, at least enjoyed this. It's not an overly creative story and not nearly as developed or decent as half the stories on this site, but maybe if I continue they'l get better, or if nothing else I'll settle my urge to post something...


	2. Endless Sleep

***Bout the name change, it's the title of the album, 'A Minor Bird' by Sucre (Stacy King) to which these one shots are all based off of each of the album's song titles***

Thank you, really, for all the reviews and-! I was really nervous about posting this, but really, the encouragement..! So, hopefully, I'll try to see this through and I just really hope you all enjoy this!

I'm really nervous about this chapter, but it's what I've got and I really just wanted to post something and thank everyone, so...

In relation to this chapter, it's a bit darker and different than the first, but that kind of fits with the song off the album that inspired this piece. This chapter is my free-lance interpretation on the fact that Hawkeye, in the comics, is mostly deaf. The movie didn't address this, so I wrote up this one shot and explored the idea. It's completely inaccurate in relation to the comics, cause I've never read them, so sorry for those who are familiar with it!

Final warning: bit of language, and there's a hidden "F" word but you kinda can miss it if you don't look too hard..? And I apologize ahead of time for any (There's probably plenty) mis interpretations of deafening ailments-I know little about the subject, and I don't mean to offend!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything!

...Another warning, it's long, and there's very little dialogue, but you'll see why...

* * *

_Endless Sleep_

_I woke up to a voice _

_Who said I had been dreaming _

_And I missed, _

_I missed everything _

_I missed everything _

* * *

"-n."

His eyes, dilated, tried to focus as he felt the air around him sway. Everything seemed out of focus and blurred and he tried to reach for something but there was nothing there. Stumbling, he finally caught himself at a rail, the weight of himself buckling on his legs. He tried to groan, but nothing came out, and suddenly the world was sideways.

He'd toppled over, and clearly felt something gathering in his throat that either was blood or vomit or both.

"-ton!"

He felt it more than heard, as the explosion sent a shiver in the earth that rippled over him. Debris hit him, light tapings of rubble and wood and stone that to his numbed and bruised body felt more like water droplets. He rolled his eyes, shifting the focus to the incoming blur that approached him. It was a dark blur with a flash of red, and he knew it was her.

Suddenly, he's being gripped at and yanked upward, forward, and the world swirls again. He feels her shaking his shoulders, trying to get a response, so he nods to calm her. There's a moment's hesitation, and his head is throbbing. Something trickles down the side of his jaw line, and he thinks it's a head injury that's bleeding. He'll be checked for a concussion the moment they get back.

If they get back.

And there's a second rumble and he knows what's coming, so he instinctively pulls at Natasha and yanks them both down for cover. Sure enough, he feels the pellets of debris hit his back and his arm refuses to let Natasha stand, pinning her chest down beside him as he waits out the blast.

Natasha is thrashing next to him, shaking him and he strains to hear what she's yelling but he doesn't hear a thing. He can't make out the string of curses she's giving him because he only catches every other syllable and even then it's a light, faint trace of noise that is hardly audible, like far off whispers.

But he does feel the air whirl and he can judge the pressure enough to know that Thor has made his entrance, surrounded by some flashy show of lightning.

It's overwhelming but it's also a distraction, and Natasha yanks at him to stand as they take the chance to escape.

As soon as they're close enough, she practically throws him forward, twisting her arm to push him down behind the upturned car that is currently being used as their cover.

He falls on his side, and despite his best efforts to push himself up, he can't seem to find the footing or balance so he decides it's better if he stays laying down on his side.

The moment Natasha frantically joins him, a fraction of a second later, behind the car, she's thrashing about, motioning him to get up, to move, to make room or-

And then it hits her that he can't understand her. So she's propping him against the car and screaming in his face and, again, he isn't catching any of it. His vision hasn't fully cleared so his focus slips in and out and he can't read her mouth very well because of it. So, whatever she is trying to say is now completely lost to him.

Then, without any real warning, he slumps forward and he's out like a light. Everything is quiet, because he can't hear the turmoil taking place just ahead of their position, where he was a moment ago, and he can't hear Natasha screaming at the Captain to come over, because something is definitely wrong with Barton and she doesn't have a damn clue what.

* * *

Banner scratches the back of his head, eyes still glued to the sight through the glass window. Baffled, he exhales, looking behind him at the others in the room.

Tony is sitting and looking at the floor, and not looking at it. His eyes are distant and the doctor isn't sure what's going through his head, because his face is unreadable and his mouth is hidden in his hands, propped by his knees. He has a nasty cut on his temple that hasn't been checked, but otherwise, outside of the suit, he looks untouched.

Thor is sitting opposite him, his arms crossed, and he's just a blank in expression as Stark, but he looks better as far as any damage goes.

Steve is the least composed, pacing a running a grimy hand through his hair every few minutes, occasionally letting out the tiniest of curses. Then, he'll all of a sudden drop into a chair and look as forlorn and unfazed as any other, Because he knows loss and he's seen men fall and this isn't anything new to the hardened soldier.

And then he'll jump back up, fooling no one, and the cycle continues.

Natasha is visible through the glass window, separating them and the patient, but from where Banner is standing, only her back can be seen. Her face is hidden, but she's seated on the side of the cot, a hand hesitantly lingering at the brow of the unconscious figure.

His face is the one Banner can see.

It's peaceful and pale and looks like death, and Banner knows that as haunting as the expression on the archer is to him, from where he's standing, it's even worse up close to Natasha. He sees small shudders pass over her, but he knows she isn't crying. She doesn't cry.

And he can't imagine what face would be worse to look at right now; His, with no life, or hers, with no tears.

* * *

It's almost noon when he wakes up the next morning. He wakes up abruptly. No slow, eyes fluttering-crap for him. It's a fit of coughing that jolts him awake and it near startles Natasha right off the bed. The others are quick to jump to his side and pretty soon there's a gentle hand at each shoulder, cautious of applying too much pressure.

He shakes his head, about to mutter out something along the lines of that he's "fine" but stops when he realizes he can't. He coughs again, but he only feels the scratch in his throat and the straining of his lungs. He doesn't hear it.

Blinking at this realization, he forgets to even look up and now that gentle hand at his shoulder is deathly gripping his arm instead. He finally looks up, meeting Natasha's face and despite all her training and what not, her face is clear-as-day worried.

And then her lips part and they're moving, forming words and saying something, but he can't hear a thing.

He stares at her, dumbfounded, straining to hear something. When she does stop, waiting for some kind of response, he doesn't take his eyes off her. He nods, because he's pretty sure she's asking if he feels alright. He feels fucking terrible, but he nods.

Then she whips her head to face the others and he quickly darts to them as well. They're all exchanging glances between each other, ending with a final lingering look on him, and finally it's Banner who steps forward.

"A-?"

Clint scowls and looks between Banner and Natasha, because he can't hear and because he doesn't know what Banner is asking. He watches as Natasha tenses up, turning away from him and moving quickly to stand. It's like watching a film, with mute on, and suddenly everyone's moving.

Steve is out the door in a flash, and Natasha is turned, facing after him and Clint can tell by her bobbing head that's she yelling something after him, maybe a command or something.

Tony doesn't say anything and his face is neither shocked nor desperate and he's by Banner's side in an instant. Banner is directly in Clint's face, his mouth moving slow, forming each letter and consonant and vowel and emphasizing the mouthing for each.

And Clint makes it out that Banner is asking if Clint can hear him.

And it's not pride that stops him but he hesitates. He knows Natasha is watching him intensely, no doubt holding her breadth, and Stark has pulled out his phone and is rapidly tapping at it. Clint makes the mistake of looking at Natasha, and the pain in her eyes, because it's subtle and hardly recognizable to anyone but him and it's damn obvious to him, and he knows this will all but ruin her.

He shakes his head.

* * *

_Oh heaven, please help me _

_Help me from falling back again _

_In hibernation _

_A century of loneliness _

* * *

He's released a day later, sore and stiff and with a limp in his leg. He reads through the report and inhales sharply as he plays over the mission in his head, over and over. From the time they touch down to the attack, to being flushed out from his perch and forced to ground run for cover. Then being too close as some undisclosed sonic attack breaches, landing him on his back and sending him a killer headache. Everything else is blur and soundless, and at this point he gives up in recollecting because his head hurts too much.

Everything is quiet, but it's not just because he can't hear. He knows because he keeps watching their faces. Steve refuses to look at him, and he hates how the Captain feels such guilt and pity that he won't even look him in the eye.

Stark is worse, because all he does is stare. He doesn't flinch or try to say anything, or communicate. He just stares, making up for what Steve won't.

Banner tries, writing things down and mouthing slowly. He's trying his hardest not to alienate the deaf, but it's awkward and the strain is taking it's toll on both of them. Neither of them like this compromise, and it's too much effort so Clint stops looking to Banner. Because he won't talk unless he catches Barton's attention first.

Natasha is by his side constantly, but she's no better than Steve. He knows she's watching him when he isn't looking, but the moment he turns to face her, her eyes shoot to the floor or her feet or her lap or his hands. She can't look at him, and it's killing him the most that she isn't able to.

Thor is probably the best, because Thor emotionally isn't as effected. That, and his voice is so loud and booming that Clint can _feel _it.

It's truly something when everyone's faces light up when Thor asks how one is supposed to open a can, stepping in the room from procuring a drink from the vending machine, courtesy of some loose change Stark offered, and Clint offers to get it for him.

What's amazing about it is because Clint wasn't even looking up. He had been forlornly looking out the window, his back to Thor when he entered. He'd felt the footsteps of Thor approaching, but he hadn't turned around to greet the God.

Still, he'd managed to faintly make out the question, and so even Natasha jumped when he turned his head nonchalantly, not even noticing himself, and offered to help Thor.

Of course everyone jumped in and began shouting all sorts of questions, eager to know or confirm if Barton could hear again. But, he'd shaken his head. While the rise in volume had perked at his ears slightly, it still was no louder than a faint vibration, and he managed to tell them so, though without the ability to hear himself it came out more as a shout. He realized as much when Steve jumped and he attempted to lower the volume of his voice, then gave up and turned away again.

Their window of hope lost, the team patiently waited for Barton to be released from the hospital's care, taking him home that evening to the Stark Tower through the duration of an awkward, silent car ride.

At the tower, he doesn't bother putting them through any more of the torture that is tip-toeing on eggshells around him. He tries to mumble a thanks, curt and quick, but he can't hear what it sounds like and he's grateful enough for that. He shoots Natasha a final look, hoping she'll face him, but she doesn't. He avoids the others, and walks out.

He knows Natasha will inform Fury. That kind of handicap could get him disbanded. He could jeopardize a mission. He's a liability now and he can't do anything about it but accept the honorable discharge, maybe write up a decent speech that someone else will read for him.

In his room, he remains just as rigid and quiet as out there. Because the walls aren't as sound proof as he is. After sitting at the edge of his mattress for a whole two seconds, he decides he can't sit still. So, he bolts for the door and down the hall. Everyone has cleared out from the den and he's thankful for it, if not a bit curious as to where they all are. Bitterly, he reminds himself they could be right behind him, watching him, and he wouldn't know. Because he can't hear them.

But he knows that isn't true. He would've seen their reflection in the windows, or felt the floors or some light tip off of their presence. He was mostly deaf, apparently, but that didn't mean he hadn't still been trained to adapt to situations where senses were dulled.

It just was a bit difficult when those training scenarios involved operations and recon missions and this is his own house (roughly speaking) and his own friends (again, so to speak).

* * *

On the roof, he finally lets it out. He screams because they don't exactly encourage you to do so in SHIELD, but from where he's standing he won't have to worry about that for very long. He screams and he's not sure how loud he is, because it's barely registering in his head the volume of his yell and because he can feel the gurgle in his throat but he can't hear it. He doesn't count the seconds, but he knows it doesn't last long because he's tired and his head hurts.

So, he drops to his knees and closes his eyes. No one will look at him, not the way they used to, before...this. And he doesn't want to see anything either. He's as lost and confused as they are, and he doesn't condemn them for being so. In a minute, he's on his back, the sun long having passed the sky scraper but not quite yet night. There's wind, but it's mostly blocked by the balcony that looms over Barton, the final level on the roof, and he doesn't feel cold at all. Actually, he's pretty comfortable, despite laying on his back on the graveled assault of the roof.

So, he closes his eyes and sleeps. He strains to, but doesn't, hear the city below him or birds above him or something. Anything.

* * *

_So I stay at home _

_In my own world _

_And I kiss it all goodbye _

_Life never seemed so elegant _

_And so trite, and so trite_

* * *

Natasha finds him a few hours later and shakes him awake. He throws himself awake and in an instant he's got her pinned and he's reaching for a weapon that's not there (He just got out of a hospital). And in horror, he realizes he finally got what he wants. She's finally looking at him, except it's in horror and shock.

He jumps off of her and walks away before she can grab a hold of him, because he's sick with himself and because in all his self-hatred he's hoping she'll sit and think for a moment after she calls out his name with his back to her, once she realizes that that is futile now.

And he doesn't look at the others when he passes them, nor does he react when they call his name, because in truth they all forgot.

And they each regret it when they remember.

* * *

Almost a week passes and he's all but given up on food. Natasha stops by, or did the first few days. She'd tug at him and carry around a notepad that urged him to come eat. He'd refuse and she'd push for him to join the others and then there was no debate because he'd flash a glare and she wouldn't bother arguing. After a day or so, he got wise and locked his door.

He never knew how much it pained her to lift a fist to his door, prepped to knock, only to remember.

The first time around, she kicked the door down. Honest to god, off of it's hinges.

Despite all the trouble, the two got into argument. She tried speaking slowly so he could read her lips, and he'd yell uncharacteristically loudly. The others quickly swarmed in on the two, and eventually it got too heated. A few fists were thrown, and she started yelling more rapidly, unable to think as quickly as she was speaking.

It was at that point in the conversation that she lost him, and he went from yelling at her to frantically searching her face, trying to make out her words. He tried to mutter "I can't-" but his voice was too soft and she had completely forgotten about his condition and then she began pacing. He reached for her, but she'd turn away, everything she was saying lost, only to turn around and walk towards him, and then to turn back again. Helpless, he just watched her, stuck between anger and grief. Because he couldn't hear her angry words directed towards him, at him.

He couldn't hear Natasha anymore.

Natasha stopped when she saw the remnants of the team huddled in the doorway, shaking their heads and looking horrified between the two agents. She whipped her head around to see Clint just staring at her, helpless and vulnerable.

She'd down some terrible things in her life, but she'd never felt more disgusted in herself than at that moment.

Her pride swelled and she nodded like it was nothing, playing the mask she was so skilled at and emphasizing her decision to "let him sulk and starve then," if that's how he wanted to be.

And she left. The others did, too, and later that night Clint moved from his room to a guest room on a different level, further from the rest of the team's.

* * *

He did eat, just not with the others. He snuck in a light snack after they'd mostly gone to sleep. He took to naps and trained during the day, because those were the only two things that kept his mind off of everything. He either worked mindlessly on his physique, punching out frustration or shooting range to prove to himself he wasn't loosing his touch, or sleep, where his mind shut down and he passed away hours.

Twice he felt Natasha enter his room, when he was awake, but he pretended not to be. He kept his breathing slow and relaxed his body, just enough to fool her. He couldn't hear her, but he knew she wanted him to come eat. She was always trying to convince him to eat.

She'd leave after rounding the corner of his mattress, checking his eyes and noticing he was asleep. She wouldn't try to wake him. She knew not to, not after the last time. He knew that she didn't blame him. Spies, people like them, were trained to be light sleepers. To react when something amiss happened and to stir awake and alert when necessary. But, he hadn't heard her. He hadn't woken until the moment she was upon him, and that's when he'd reacted.

* * *

The rare times he did make a public appearance amongst the house, he always had the luck to run into Thor. He never admitted it, but this was probably the most comforting thing. Because Thor he could hear, in technical terms. He knew even Thor was straining to boom ever so louder when Clint was around, and it comforted him knowing he wasn't completely deaf (Just mostly, so that doctor had confirmed).

Banner still pitied him. The Captain still felt guilty. Clint actually never saw Tony anymore. On the rare occasions when Clint would pick up a pen and paper and ask such, he'd always get a written response of 'in his lab'. If he was really curious e could have taken a visit to harass Tony what he was up to, but he never felt motivated enough to do so.

But, he did kind of miss how Tony wouldn't beat around the bush with things. If Clint wanted to ever be truly treated normal, and not like he had a clinical condition that no one wanted to talk about, he could trust Tony to prod it with a stick.

He heard nothing from Fury, or anyone a SHIELD for that matter. He tried to ask Natasha about it once, when she finally did manage to corner him to sit at the counter. Despite all her skill and wording, her answer had been a shrug without so much as a glance his way.

That was the most he got out of her on that.

* * *

_No love, no loss _

_There's only air _

_I feel no pain _

_There's only here_

* * *

Two weeks went by and he started seeing less of Banner, along with Stark. The two kept disappearing. It wasn't that unheard of-no doubt they'd moved on with their latest science project.

That's what hurt the most. Was that everyone had moved on. Tony and Bruce were again breaking every law of physics and science. Steve was always with some new device in hand, picking up slowly on today's technology. Recently, he'd seemed addicted enough on the lap top that Stark had outfitted him with that he looked to fit in just fine with the 21st century.

And Natasha had been on a few missions.

He never got the direct letter suspending him from SHIELD, but he knew it was probably just lagging in the mail or sitting unaccounted for on some desk, unsigned yet. Like SHIELD was hesitating. Hoping that he'd pull a miracle out last minute.

So was he.

* * *

_But oh, it shall be the end _

_Of endless sleep _

_I must stay awake_

* * *

His miracle came abruptly in the form a storming Stark one afternoon when Clint was standing on the roof.

He'd heard Thor before he felt the foot steps of a crowd approaching him, and turned around to see the assembled team speed walking towards him, purpose lit in their eyes, with Stark eluding them.

Taken aback slightly, he dropped his hands to his side and eyed them all, slightly nervous at what was going on. Because Natasha was holding her breath and Banner looked twitchy and Stark looked as dead-panned and least-comical that Barton could ever remember.

Stark opened his mouth and began a jumbled speech that Clint hardly caught a word of. He did manage 'wave' and 'frequency' and he followed Tony's hands whenever he'd point behind him at a fellow member, but the meanings were loss and a good minute into it all Clint threw up his hands, shaking in protest for Stark to slow down.

Rather than stop talking (Clint wasn't exactly holding his breadth concerning that option), Stark reached up for the side of Clint's face. Clint instinctively flinched backwards but Stark's hand caught him by the ear and suddenly something cold and hard was being crammed into it.

Clint pushed Tony away and stepped back, just as it registered to him what was going on.

"...-nk you, I mean, what, we did just spend, I don't know, the past two weeks in a vigil of as little food, water and sex as possible-"

"He's not kidding," Bruce interjected.

"-trying to piece together that custom little earring for you, and if this is how you show your gratitude then I'd hate to see what kind of act you pull on Chekoff over here after she practically spoon fed you through your self-pity party-"

"-Stark." Natasha barked a warning.

"Right, sorry, just the caffeine draining agitation kicking in. What I really mean is-"

His words were lost as Clint, only half listening (Ironically now that he could) to Stark as he fiddled with the ear piece, found the source of a dial and turned it. Watching Tony babble on for a moment, he waited until Stark paused before he turned the dial back again.

"Clint."

This time, he turned his attention to Natasha, who looked relieved beyond belief that he'd responded to the sound of her voice.

"You-" He stuttered out, and stopped. Because he could hear his own voice and because he knew he wasn't yelling at them this time around because he could _hear his own voice._

* * *

_I only want to hear and see what I see _

_Why is this all that I can hold in my hands? _

_All these phrases and voices buried in snow_

* * *

Natasha found Clint standing on the roof that night. She purposely dug her heels into the gravel, and smiled when she caught him tense up, obviously hearing her arrival.

When she rounded to face him, standing next to him, her smirk grew. He wasn't smiling, but it was just as satisfying, because he was back to the way he'd been. He was himself again.

"You knew." He finally murmured. She didn't nod because he hadn't asked and he didn't need an answer, or even confirmation at that.

"SHIELD did, too, didn't they?"

She'd indulged enough to answer him that at least, she reasoned.

"They commissioned for it, actually. Or, tried to. Thing was, they didn't contract Stark into the project until two days after you were released from the hospital, when I finally did get around to reporting on it. Stark started the project the night we came home."

"So that's what him and Banner were working on?"

Again, no answer.

"Steve helped, too. Or, tried to. He quickly adapted to using the internet, reading up on as many deaf cases and hearing aid products as possible. Stark thought, what with you being as much as a necessity as you are to this team, that you deserved a little more than just any regular old aid. It is custom, you know."

"Sensitive, too," he muttered, again fumbling with the dial. Natasha frowned at this.

"Sorry, is my voice too loud?"

"No, it's perfect," he exhaled, glad to hear her, and everyone, and everything, again. Glad to hear Stark thought he was important, or that Steve was had been trying to adjust to accommodate to Clint. She might have punched him for the comment, or bite back some remark, but she didn't. She followed his eyes over the city, and sighed.

"What are you doing up here, anyway?"

"Listening to the city."

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry if this deviates from what anyone was expecting with the chance of continuation for this story! This story stood out even to me, but like I mentioned the song on the album was a stand out to me (Well, all of her songs are remarkable and stand alone perfectly fine), so this story came off..weird? Idk T_T I'll admit, some parts I really loved, which is what ultiamtely convinced me to just go ahead and post this piece (Cause there was little revision I was going to do and because I wanted to post something already...) while at the same time there's scenes I'm not very happy with at all and probably should have reworked, because they're either cheesy or not very clear *cough*_ending_*cough*

Again, I'm not familiar with the comics, or really with actual factors in the disability of hearing aids and all, so if you know more about the subject than me and want to enlighten me on it, I'm more than happy to become educated!

He is, this much I know, only _mostly _deaf, though (again, not an expert) I'm not fully knoweldgable on how much that means he can hear, so with a twist of humor I made Thor faintly audible, because his voice is deep and booming and it helps cement that he's _mostly_ deaf.

I really hope someone enjoys this, and I'm sorry to all who alerted (I'm not even sure why, really ya'll are...really wonderful!) in case you weren't expecting this..? Ah, sorry! Hopefully, my next post (Cause I should see this through) will be lighter, or fluffier... And more accurate. Hopefully.


	3. Chemical Reaction

Well...Firstly, I didn't mean to take this long in getting another chapter out. It just was incrediably hard to write, because I'd jot down small snippets from one story and then jump to the next and I could never get a full chapter written. Secondly, I apologize about the length. I worried so much that this chapter would be too short on plot, and before I knew it this chapter is longer than the other two chapters combined T_T I really should have split this between two stories, but without the development of either half, both would have felt too empty to me...

Thirdly, I apologize about the quality. There's some shabby romance thrown in and poorly written action cause I can't write action. Some parts I spent a lot of time re-writing and editing and others I typed up within the hour. Still, I hope you all overlook those three thigns about this chapter and enjoy it..?

Disclaimer: I own niether franchise, the song is 'Chemical Reaction' by Sucre, off her album 'A Minor Bird' (Ya'll should know this by now~)

* * *

_Chemical Reaction_

* * *

_Today I have a new chance _

_The ink's wet as I think back _

_All I know who could never be _

_When all I knew was the empty part of me_

* * *

His smirk is unnerving and despite the man's best efforts to remain as placid and cold-faced as he can, he can't help but grimace at the man before him. _A spy,_ the man spits at his feet at the thought.

Some foreign scum, and not a particularly good one at that. Easily caught, he hardly put up a fight. At least, a decent one. His footwork was sloppy and with a solid blow to the back of his head, the spy had gone down, cold.

He had hardly even been armed. A handheld, a standard boot knife, a clip and a round in his pocket. It was insulting, the man thought. That whoever sent this spy looked so down upon him and all his work, all his enterprise that he'd raised from the ground and ash singularly by himself (And the few casualties that had gotten in his way. Business was business, sacrifice inevitable).

His lips pursed into a smile. _Speaking of which_, he thought, eyeing over the spy as he came to it. He blinked twice, still half out of it from the mild concussion. He shook his head, then smugly grinned a big, toothy excuse of a smile that seemed to sum up the suited man's impression on Americans in general.

He rolled his eyes, already disgusted beyond capacity. Here he was, in such an elegant city, surrounded by art and culture, and he was forced to waste his time seeing to it that this spy was interrogated and executed without a hitch (Unlike last time; like he'd ever make that mistake again). The quicker he got through this, the quicker he could return to a gala that had peeked his interest earlier this night (Mostly because of a vixen who suggested interest in some activity later that night).

He nodded to one of his own men, standing near by, and the man took two large steps before he was at the spy's side.

With a swift blow to the gut, the spy was instantly better, focused and no longer smiling.

So he thought.

Turning back to face the spy, that damn smile was still there. He spat out some blood and continued to smirk like he was medicated (Well, he was currently attached to two IVs), his teeth now glossed in red, making him look all the more dumb.

"You work...America, no?" His accent was thick and he hardly knew any English. He nodded to another one of his men, who babbled on it even more grotesque English before hitting the spy, suspended, in the back of the head.

He took the blow just like the one before. With a quick shake of his head and a smile.

Irritated, with patience wearing down and the prospect of the woman from earlier grinding in the back of his head, the man in charge made two swift nods at his men, unconcerned, before turning back towards the table laid out for him. This was short notice, so none of his favorite toys were nearby. He had the spy's gun, knife and a couple of choice tools. He went for the final piece of equipment-a syringe.

"You...don't talk, no?" He smirked, mock familiarity in his voice. The spy said nothing, keeping quiet.

"I'd...love to play," the man sighed, "But," he shrugged, "Quite frankly, I have no time." With a smile, he pointed accusingly at the spy. "You have no time."

Without any other signals, the two men at either side of the prisoner yanked him back, flattening him against a make shift cot set up. The spy grunted, but that was the most noise he produced.

The man, toying with the needle in hand, approached the prisoner, a wicked grin on his eyes.

"It's...shame, no? No...final words," he pouted, "No scream. No name?"

He swore he saw the man wink, and he felt anger flare up, even if he was sure he'd just imagined it all.

"Pity. Under any other...circumstance," he fumbled for the right words, "would've tried to get more...information..? Seeing as is, not quite the case," he frowned, the gesture a mockery of empathy, "Not that I'd get much," he muttered under his breadth, in native tongue.

He popped off the cap and gave the needle a light shake. The liquid inside was an unnatural green, and the American's eyes studied it, widening. Satisfied by the fear filing those grey eyes, the man approached.

"W-wait-" The spy finally stuttered.

He caught himself, pausing as he quirked a brow.

"Yes..?"

The American's eyes darted between the needle and his executioner's face, back to the needle, and finally smiling as he rolled his head back and yelled out, "You're not even going to buy me dinner first, eh? Cheap bastards, and here I thought you Europeans were classy-"

The man flinched as either guard flexed, trying to contain the squirming vocalist. He cackled under their grips, a vein flexing in his neck as he strained his head.

"I have a joke for you! Three guys walk into a bar-"

One man punched the spy in square in the jaw. This only halted his performance for a moment as he smirked, his nose now bleeding, before continuing,

"You're more a 'knock knock' joke kind of guy, huh? I know, maybe some karaoke?"

He was breathing heavier, but doing one hell of a job keeping calm. He was stark mad, the man decided. A complete lunatic. He gripped the younger man's wrist, turning it over in his hand as he brought the needle down.

"Singing this will be the day that I die," The spy sounded exasperated. Tired and drained, his voice was lowering and all his attention was drawn to the needle, mere inches from a prominent vein in his skin.

It pricks the surface.

"This will be the day that I die..."

* * *

A part of him thinks she actually will miss her cue. He bitterly wonders if she's waiting for a invitation. After the first punch in the gut, a sucker punch that he can't do anything about without blowing his cover, he remembers exactly why he hates being the bait. She's better at this than him, though he won't ever admit it to her. He will admit that the client always seem to...warm up more to her than him.

Case in point when the guy "regrettably" informs him that he doesn't have the time to torture any useful information out of him, so he's just going to off him right here right now. This does throw the plan forward a couple of minutes, and he hopes that she's already in position, otherwise he will only serve the purpose as an example when he's shipped back in a bag for SHIELD to examine.

Barton will give him this much, at least it adds a bit of a challenge. He isn't a psychopath, and it's not like he's inviting death any closer, but he was starting to understand why Natasha always complained at how tiresome these types of interrogations went. No one was creative anymore and, apparently, no one had time to do a proper interrogation (He hadn't gone through the training and everything in order to handle torture and interrogation only to be told "sorry, let's skip that part").

But, things are moving quickly and he hasn't gotten the signal yet. He thinks up some make-shift distraction, to stall for just a minute. He knows this guy has an opinion already formed in his mind of him-some rookie spy from America with half the whit as he has muscle. So, he plays on that.

"I have a joke!" He's loud and obnoxious and everything he knows this guy will hate. What's more, he's loud and only half the fear in his voice is acting and he's hoping she'll hear it. He doesn't admit it, but he chooses this particular song just to irk her.

"This will be the day that I die.."

That, and it's a befitting song.

He's the only one not surprised when the doors burst open, the locks picked and discarded, as lights flash through the window, alerting the presence of, at least in counting, three choppers.

Clint relaxes his head against the table, not because he's relieved at the rescue, but because his throat hurts from belting that tune and his arm is starting to fall asleep, his veins pulsing quicker as blood is drawn when the needle is yanked back.

* * *

_The wind blew and it carried _

_You to me, you're my only _

_I keep my heart on a string for you _

_I keep my eye on the narrow not to stray_

* * *

She's picking at the lock and from what little she can make out, she knows things aren't going exactly as planned. Because she can't make out his voice and there's too little of talking. Then she hears him singing and her first thought is "that bastard," because he knows she doesn't care for that song.

He next thought is that they need to act now.

The lock snaps and she jabs the com line open.

"Action affirmed, repeat; action affirmative." Her voice is quick and sharp, not because she'd afraid but she's a bit edgy. She knows the shakiness of his voice is all an act. He could be popping grapes in a bath for all she knew. But, she didn't like this mission from the start, because in all honesty it should be her in that role and he should be the one standing outside, waiting for the signal.

So she's not completely surprised when she kicks the door open, her team filling in behind her, and her eyes immediately dart to him holstered down on a table, with a needle which's contents are visible even from her distance.

She doesn't hesitated a moment before she unleashes two bullets, either side of her partner's captives dropping. Free, he jerks up, with enough slack from their loosened grips, to deliver a head butt to his captor, who was standing all too close. The vial drops and shatters, spewing whatever poison it contained on the stained floor.

Clint jerks upright but the shackles suspending him only allow him a radius of a few feet before he's yanked backwards. His captor is recovering and quickly assessing the situation to be one that he needs to escape from, but Natasha's already on it.

A few more stand-by thugs are already making their way to intercept. What doesn't get taken out by Natasha's backup, or flee at the sight of the spotlights, is picked off by Clint.

Twisting his hands around to grip at the chains, he pulls himself up, effortlessly, and twists the chains to swing him towards the pursuers, sending a kick to two of their skulls that sends them crashing back into the tagalong others. The IVs are forcefully yanked out of him when he twists, but he hardly notices.

The operator behind the mess is frantic and sprawls towards his tray of tools, but Natasha is a hell of a lot quicker and she's already landed her heel to his face. Slumping backwards, he rubs at his head as Natasha aims, point blank, directly at his eye.

"Guess we won't get our intimate time together, huh?" She mocks, and he gravely recalls her to be the flirt from the party.

He instantly regrets his wish of seeing her as fast as he could.

The area surrounded and the target secured, Natasha approaches Clint, who is sitting expectantly on the table, hands still cuffed.

"What're you waiting for?" She barks, because she knows he could have escaped the cuffs hours ago.

He shrugs, "Maybe I was waiting for my prince charming to finish the job."

She rolls her eyes, turning away and biting back, "The job is over. Drop the act."

He doesn't respond, chuckling lowly as he twists the cuffs a bit before squeezing his hands out from them, just catching her final comment before she slips out of the room, "And don't ever sing that song again. Ever," she emphasizes.

He starts whistling the tune.

* * *

The debriefing is quick and ends with a half-hearted compliment by Fury over a job "well done". He doesn't take his eyes off her cause she looks fidgety the entire time and he knows it' s something to do with the mission. He wants her to be outright with it, but thinks it's been a decent night, successful mission and all, and he tries his luck with a joke.

"If you really hate the song that much..."

She jumps a little as he approaches her, and now he regrets the joke because if she's shaken enough to actually be startled then she's too shaken for jokes. So, he drops it like he said nothing.

She shakes her head, though, "No, it's-"

The two are cut off as another agent approaches and informs the pair that they'll be departing soon. The moment the agent is gone, she turns back to Clint, because she didn't get to finish what she'd meant to say, but he's already turned away as well. He mutters something about checking with the meds real quick, and she assumes he's just playing for sympathy, because she knows for a fact he barely had any bruises on his wrists and that both blows landed on him weren't nearly as hard as their spars.

She doesn't catch, however, how he rubs and nurses a sore spot just below his upturned elbow, where a vein throbs and swelling has started.

* * *

_'Cause you know me better _

_And you know I, _

_I'm shouting your name_

* * *

Natasha frowns, watching Clint as he picks at the meal, having not even taken so much as a bite out of the plate. She's so intently watching him that she's forgotten about her own meal, and unlike Clint, this doesn't go unnoticed by another.

"Well, damn, Natasha. If you're so hell bent on undressing Clint from across the table, don't mind us!" Stark invites, and instantly she shoots him a glare that shuts him up. Steve chokes from beside Barton, who in all honesty missed the comment and is now startled by Steve's outburst.

Thor booms, confused, "We Asgardians have no magic akin to that of undressing another without physical contact. Is this a unique skill only performed by SHIELD, or do all midgardians possess such..?"

Tony smiles, happy to oblige Thor's question.

"It's something reserved only for the fiercely feminine and sexually deprived creatures known as 'Black Widows'. But, it only works on certain, complimentary species, specifically the ha-"

Bruce doesn't even lift his head up from his meal in surprise when a roll hits its target, square in the nose, from beside him. He burps to himself and quickly apologizes, then reaches for a second serving of peas.

Barton rubs at his temple, because he's only catching parts of this conversation and he's pretty sure he doesn't want the rest of it. Tony is screaming bloody murder and demanding a citizen's arrest of his assailant, and Steve can't decide if he wants to attempt to down a glass or not, considering he might just spit it up and Banner probably wouldn't appreciate the unwanted shower.

Without a sound, Clint rises from the table, his plate a perfect preservation of how it'd exactly been served, and he mumbles something about sleep. Natasha almost stands, but catches Tony's smirk and it bothers the hell out of her, so against her better judgment she lets Barton walk off. Because she can always corner him later and she's not in the mood right now to ward off teasing of Tony's.

But the minute Barton disappears behind the corner, Tony jumps at the chance.

"Dinner and a show! Vegas buffet-" he points to the Captain, "We...are going to have to catch you up to speed."

"Tony, I-"

But Natasha doesn't stick around and she's out of there before she can even catch the rest of Steve's feeble attempts to ward Tony off his back.

* * *

She knocks lightly and from inside she hears a quick curse. She can tell by the echo that he's in the bathroom and she hears something fall on the counter before footsteps follow and the door is opened.

Clint looked down at Natasha, surprised at how quick she was to follow him and he throws up a smile that doesn't fool either of them.

"Tasha, what's-"

"You alright?" She pushes past him, into his room, and he holds his breadth when of course the first thing she does is make a beeline for his bathroom.

But he's quick and he catches her at the doorway, exhaling without looking at her.

"I'm fine, Nat." But he sounds aggravated more than assuring and she sounded agitated more than concerned.

Natasha hid her surprise, but it's there. She's startled that Clint is physically barring her from his bathroom, and if that doesn't scream conspicuous then he might as well pin a sign to his shirt.

She looks between the alluded bathroom and Clint, who looks tired in the low light. She wants nothing more than to kick him sideways and make a break for whatever it is that he's hiding, but he looks dead serious about stopping her. What good would it do if she came in to see what was wrong with him only to add to the list by picking a fight.

"Alright." She surrendered.

Barton blinked. Just like that?

Natasha stepped on her heels and walked towards the doorway, pausing just at it and giving Clint a side glance. She starts to say something, but stops, and finally she just murmurs a quick "night".

The moment she's gone and the door clicks, Clint falls backwards, sprawled on the bed. Raising his arm, he eyes the swelling that he thanks Thor's ancestors she didn't notice. He rubs his eyes, because the meds are kicking in quicker than he thought and he doesn't remember the exact dosage they prescribed, so he reminds himself to call in the minute he wakes up.

* * *

Natasha doesn't even wait for Stark to instigate it when he walks into the kitchen the next morning. She focuses her glare on him, intensely, and becomes fixated with shutting him up before he can so much as tell a knock knock joke.

It works, because he pours a cup of coffee and keeps his mouth shut.

Until Barton walks in.

"Morning sunshine," he purposely yells practically, catching how tired and groggy Barton still looks. Natasha rolls her eyes because Stark is mistaking his appearance to be a hangover, though only Stark ever seems to be conditioned with those.

Barton doesn't flinch at the volume of his voice, but he stumbles a bit and hits the side of the counter, gripping it for a moment. Natasha instantly pushes herself off from the counter but hesitates when he yawns and settles in a stool at the counter, playing off the incident.

Tony isn't done with his teases, but he does miss the stumble and instead attacks his choice in attire.

"You're not going to fly south on us, are you? This," he motioned to the sleeves, "Isn't some kind of weather-predicting anticipation, is it? You're not holding out on us on some special...power or something?"

Barton just furrows his brows and shakes his head at Stark, but Natasha actually gives Tony credit that he's on to something.

It's mid summer and Clint is wearing long sleeves.

"Clint-" She begins, but it seems she can never get a word out because Clint cuts her off himself this time.

"I'm stopping by base this morning. Turn in the report from the previous mission. I reviewed it a bit, added a few comments and Intel I'd like to personally look into."

Natasha cocked a brow.

"I'll go with you-"

"No."

It jumped out of his mouth quicker than he'd meant and his recovery didn't exactly help him either.

"I'm just dropping off the files, no reason for two people to go for a job that only requires one."

"If it's just some files, I can have Jarvis hack into SHIELD, upload them from here-"

"Right, I'll be back in a bit," Clint declared, rather uncharacteristically. He didn't need the sendoff, but he used it as an excuse to cut Tony off.

This only enflamed Natasha's curiosity and in a twist of fate against Clint, it also spiked the interest of Tony.

Enough that he was even willing to put aside the golden opportunity of teasing to join in a rare moment of conspiring with the Black Widow.

"I'll have Jarvis pull up Shield's security footage."

"I'm going to raid his room."

* * *

Clint anticipated as much, and he'd made a clean sweep that morning of his room and bathroom, something Natasha noted when she entered it. Clint had left not but ten minutes ago.

His room was neat, as always, with the bed made and everything personal packed in drawers and shelves. She didn't waste much time there-her real source of Intel was the bathroom.

Of course he'd swiped the place down, the countertop clean save for a tooth brush and paste and a few other average necessities.

Frustrated, she checked the trash bin. It had recently been emptied. The cabinet; swiped clean of anything but a few standard pain medications and light sleeping pills.

She returned, empty handed, to Stark, who was viewing Jarvis's work on a tablet.

"How long ago did he leave?"

Natasha frowned.

"He should be at HQ by now," what with the New York base set not far from the city setting, "at which, he'll take a right towards the records and debriefing rooms-"

"Really? Because he just took a left."

Tony flipped the tablet to face Natasha, who sure enough found herself watching her partner head in the opposite direction of his intended errand."

"The left..? It's the training facility..." No, he just passed the gym. The cameras jumped ahead each time Clint passed one, Jarvis tracking his identification as Tony instructed. Puzzled, she watched him take a right just before the hall that loops back towards records.

"That's...towards the infirmary."

"Oh, so he's reporting to the doctors, is it? Something not go quite right the other day?"

Natasha frowned. He hadn't sustained any serious injuries, she'd thought. Had he softened so much that he couldn't take a sucker punch to the jaw?

Her doubts were confirmed when he steppe inside an all-too-familiar room designated for patients. Scowling, Natasha leaned in, snatching the tablet out of Stark's fingers.

"Hey, that's-"

"Jarvis, get inside that room."

There was a pause, then the screen jumped to inside. Clint was seated on the bench, an agent doctor (Natasha recognized the face but couldn't match the name) seated beside him. The two men nodded and briefly talked before Clint tugged at his sleeve, rolling it up to his shoulder as the doctor leaned in closer for inspection.

After a quick moment, Clint pulled the sleeve down and the doctor reached back to an array of tools, picking out a few before settling on one needle.

"Jarvis, rewind the footage and freeze the frame," Stark noted off-handedly, pulling the caption out from the boundaries of the tablet to form a screen of sorts in his hand. Natasha didn't so much as bat an eyelid at the technology Stark possessed, but she reminded herself to be wary of cameras, knowing Stark was very capable of this control.

"What's wrong with his arm?" Stark mentioned, pointing out the discoloration (The screen itself was a dingy green, so clarity wasn't exactly present).

Natasha only spared a glance before turning back to watch the live footage and the doctor inserted one needle...and another...and a third. He handed Clint two pill bottles, finally, with a few more curt words that she interpreted to be directions and prescriptions before both men stood, nodding to each other, and going there separate ways.

Stark was busy blowing up the image on Clint's swollen arm, about to make some remark towards Natasha, but stopped when he saw the expression she wore.

She was livid.

* * *

_Out loud, so loud _

_It's a chemical reaction _

_I can feel the time just slipping by_

* * *

Tony was no spy, but he did a damn good job that evening in keeping his mouth shut and the attention off of him. He kept eyeing Natasha, waiting and watching to see if or when she'd confront Clint. Clint himself didn't say a word, didn't look up, and hardly touched his meal. That was anything new.

Tony not talking was.

"Anything you want to share, Stark?"

The older man jumped as Barton lifted his eyes to stare down the man, apparently aware that he'd been tensely watching him. Maybe Stark wasn't that good and keeping suspicion off himself.

But the mistake was Clint's, because looking up at Stark only left him open wide for scrutinizing. With his head lifted and attention drawn to him, even the others caught the flash of paling in the archer's face and the all-around appearance of illness.

Another mistake was his word choice.

"We could ask you the same thing," Natasha spat from under her napkin as she dabbed at her chin. Barton snapped his neck to face her and Tony, seeing an opportunity to jump in, took the chance.

"It is...funny, that you should call out me for being suspicious. I've been home all day," he shrugged, trying to play himself off as obviously nonchalant as possible, "And practically been in the company of everyone set at this table all day; witnesses, you might say. You, however-"

"'We'?" Clint cut Stark off, his eyes still fixated on Natasha as he hadn't heard a word that Tony had said.

Natasha threw the napkin down.

"Stark and I-"

"You spied on me?"

"You lied to me-"

"Good to see I can trust my partner-"

"You can trust me to _care_ when you lie, as a _friend-"_

"So, what? What'd you see-"

"Why don't you tell me?" Their voices escalated and Barton was standing, his back flexed as he loomed over Natasha, who remained the calmer of the two (Surprisingly), still seated.

"It's none of your goddamn business," he finally spat, in a half-whisper that everyone heard but hardly believed. And Natasha just watched as he turned around before anger finally broke past her facade and she lunged after him.

"What kind of bullshit is that? That's not an answer, Clint, that's an excuse! You're running away-"

She caught him by the arm and he reacted by twisting it and gripping her right back. In a swift turn, he shifted himself around her and pinned her back against him, bending her arm in discomfort without so much as blinking. She twisted her legs behind his, in a taking-you-with-me stance that pinned them both back against the wall. Everyone at the table was already on their feet, Steve just a pace behind breaking the two apart, save for Tony who hadn't stood or reacted at all.

Natasha brought her free hand up behind her to Clint's face, trying to shove him off, but in that instant he dropped his grip, completely releasing her and tripping back against the wall.

Their feet still intertwined, Natasha fell forward, Steve catching her while Clint slumped into a seated position, back against the wall. He was coughing and he no longer was looking at Natasha or focused on anything in particular.

"Sh-" He tried to curse, but a small trail of foam came out instead, a mix of spit and bile and he coughed as a bit of drool trailed down his chin. Weakly, he lifted a hand at the door's handle, trying to make his way to it. That was impossible, and he knelt over in another coughing fit.

Natasha had a grip on the situation more so than the others, and immediately pushed out of Steve's grip, making her own way to the door.

"The medications, he needs the medications!"

She was out the door and Clint had dropped to his side, his breathing raspy as convulsions took over his body. He was having a damn seizure, and only Banner was reacting appropriately.

Natasha returned momentarily, two pill bottles in hand. She gave up trying to read the prescription and shoved both bottles in Clint's face.

"Clint, which one? Damn it, Clint, which one!"

Whatever little sense he still had he put into pointing weakly at her left hand before the muscles gave out in his forearm. Natasha screwed the cap off, popped two pills (She prayed the dosage was enough, that much she had gotten off of the bottle) and unceremoniously shoved them with her fingers deep in the back of Clint's throat.

She didn't stop moving, setting the pills aside before pulling out her com link and patching through to Shield.

"Get me Agent..." She racked at her brain, trying to remember that damn doctor's name that she'd recognized from earlier. Giving up, she shook her head, not that they'd see it over at Shield.

"It's Barton, something's wrong with him. I need medical attention, immediately, he's not stabilizing-"

Banner was jumping through standard protocol in dealing with patients and seizures, yelling orders that Steve and Thor quickly jumped to carry out.

Stark still remained seated.

* * *

_Loud, so loud _

_It's a chemical reaction _

_I hold your name up to the sky, so high_

* * *

No one held back Natasha the moment Clint stepped out from the emergency infirmary at Shield's station. Therefore, no one was able to stop her when she punched Clint directly in the face. Even he didn't react. A small part of them, and Clint himself, knew that he deserved that much.

"You want to tell me now?"

Clint didn't look at her, keeping his eyes away from her and his arm, with which the sleeve was rolled up and a patch signaled some shots had taken place, and at the floor. Natasha kept her gaze firmly on him.

"It wasn't much, just a small prick. Not even half the dosage."

Natasha's eyes widened, because she understood, but no one else got the reference.

"Clint...that's too close of a call-"

"Nothing you can do about it now." She muttered, finally pushing past her. He just wanted to go home and to sleep.

But, Natasha wasn't done.

"So, the medications..?"

"To help flush it out of my system. I told you, Nat, it was a small dose, a couple drops."

She had more questions, they all did, but then Clint turned and gave her a look that clearly looked to beg for peace.

"I'm really tired..." The honesty was unnerving, and Natasha just nodded.

* * *

At the tower, after Clint had gone to sleep immediately upon arrival, Natasha was cornered and sat in the center of the den, the other members of their team circled around her as she relayed their mission from a few nights ago.

"As mother of this whole operation," Tony pointed dejectedly around the gathered roommates, ignoring Steve's scowl, "I have to protest, I'm not sure I like you and junior going out on these escapades every other night. Double shifts?" He questioned, raising a brow. Natasha frowned.

"We're first and foremost Shield agents. We're trained for this. The last job just...ran it close."

"Close?" Banner questioned, finally speaking up. "I'm...well, I wasn't there, but from the details you're describing, I'm assuming that the liquid was..." Banner trailed off.

"-not some perk-me-up solution for Sparky over there?" Tony provided. Banner essentially ignored him.

"Barbiturate." Natasha answered.

"Even a small dosage...I mean, it's great that you caught it and all, but..."

Steve sighed, rubbing his neck.

"He'll be alright?"

Natasha nodded slowly. "The doctors say it should flush out of his system in a couple of weeks. The meds are...pretty intense, but he'll live."

"As long as he continues regular doses and the allotted intervals," Tony noted, referring to their dinner time show.

Natasha didn't nod.

* * *

_Good God child, have you noticed _

_The ceiling never closes? _

_I hope you feel so safe with me _

_It could last for our lives _

_Oh, can't you see?_

* * *

He isn't asleep, and she knows as much which is why she doesn't bother knocking to warn or wake him. Because he knew all along she'd slip in anyway and she knows that as well. All he is surprised at is how quickly she shook the others off. Must have given them the condensed report on the mission, because it's barely been any time at all since he left them all in the den, well aware that Natasha was about to be victim to a press conference of questions regarding what exactly was going on.

Clint doesn't say anything, even as she slips up behind him, her hands falling on his shoulders as she presses her face between his shoulder blades in the curve of his back. He shifts a little, not to pull away from her but to straighten so she can press closer to him, because he's not sacrificing that much comfort and to be honest, her presence is the most comforting thing going for him right now.

"You really weren't going to tell me?" She finally mutters, but she doesn't want the answer. Not really. She already knows it, so he doesn't answer.

But he owes her something, owes some kind of words to her, for everything she's done and been through and had to put up with as of late, so he gives her that much. He talks to her.

"I hate being bait."

She scoffs bitterly, and a silent agreement passes between the two of them that he'll remain the distant sniper and she'll handle the up-close interrogations. It suits them better.

"Back up was already there. You could have blown cover, just a second earlier. Don't even pretend that it was a challenge."

He shrugs. To be honest, he hadn't been sure. He wasn't exactly known to follow operatives through and through (Natasha was exhibit A), but he was infamous on the risks he took. And he always made close calls. He was patient and he rode off on last minute calls. That was one of the few irritating things about him, to her.

Along with how he hid things, even from her, though he hadn't managed yet to hide anything from her for very long. Intel was her strength.

"I was distracted." He finally said, and she isn't sure if he is joking or not. "Sitting there..that honestly could have been the end."

"It's always 'could be the end'; that's just-"

"Occupational hazards?" He mocks, but neither one laughs.

"And I kept thinking...how pissed is Tasha going to be when the last thing she hears me say is singing a song she can't stand?"

He chuckles and she taps his back with her fist, no force behind the punch at all, but he knows she's smirking despite herself.

Then it's quiet again and his arm itches but he can't scratch it because he was warned not to. So, he sighs instead and throws his arm backwards, the very one that's bruised, so it curves and catches Natasha, pulling her further against his back. She avoids touching his arm but doesn't flinch, scooting closer so he doesn't have to do all the work and she slips her hands around his waist.

It's a breach of any personal space but he's tired and needs sleep and he knows she'll be damned before she leaves him alone, wary that a repeat of tonight's dinner happens and he's helpless, unable to reach the emergency meds. The extra warmth isn't so bad, either.

He's out after a minute, and she knows it's killing Stark, not knowing what the two are doing or what's going on. So, she tortures his curiosity by staying by Clint's side, in his room, until she drifts asleep.

* * *

_Cause we'll keep the water from running dry _

_Keep the water from rushing to you eyes_

* * *

It's been two weeks and the dosages have dropped. He's more open about the verdicts each time he returns from check ups, mostly due to the insistence on Natasha, so everyone at the Tower is aware of his progress from healing. Physically, he's fine. He trains, though Steve frets over 'overexertion' but Clint assures him he's fine. Bruce also is uptight about proper hydration, insisting water will do his body just as much good as the prescriptions. Thor keeps asking 'how fairs he' ad Clint always just nods and smirks.

He's still touchy and moody occasionally, when the doses first start diminishing, but they do their best not to agitate him and Natasha is always right there, right beside him whenever his attitude does flare or peak. Pretty soon, he's rounding out to be almost normal again.

There was a ripple of mixed emotions, then, when Barton revealed he was taking up a mission. Alone.

No one would outright say something against it. It's not that he had a choice in declining or not, when it came to a SHIELD agent and their directors, but they all felt uneasy about him taking off shortly after reaching recovery, and as Banner pointed out he wasn't completely weaned off the doses just yet. Steve sided with Barton's unspoken argument (Because all this debate went behind his back, naturally). It was his job and mission to carry out. If he was deemed healthy enough, he should be fine. Like a true soldier's response.

Banner was doubtful about it. Precautious in any instance that involved drugs, he also recognized it was futile to question the decision-he just didn't support it.

Thor didn't approve of it, but kept any opinion beyond that to himself, oddly enough.

Stark was the most adamant that Barton should stick it to SHIELD and take a jet to Santa Barbara, see what they'd do then. He looked to Natasha to be his ally, since Thor was silent and Banner didn't have enough of a spine.

Disappointingly, he found that she was even more reserved than Thor, answering only with a shrug.

Tony had been banking that, if nothing else, she'd be upset that the mission was a solo one, one that didn't include her. But she reminded him her and Barton did several missions apart-they weren't conjoined at the hip, she reminded him with a light scowl.

Tony mumbled something about where else they were attached, and even though only Natasha caught it, the others didn't bother defending him when all of sudden he found himself in a head lock by the Black Widow.

It's the night before Barton is supposed to leave. They're all gathered in the loft, Natasha pretending to be focused on a book but in all honesty she's calculating how much of Barton's dosages are left and whether he needs a refill or not. He won't disclose how long the mission will take to her, so she makes a note to herself to remind him to see to it that the infirmary supplies him with a full new supply before he leaves.

Her thoughts are cut short when Clint appears, storming from his own quarters, and jerks her wrist after him, pulling her out of the room, which has grown silent as the events unfolded.

* * *

Clint doesn't stop, tugging Natasha along behind him and she would've yanked from his grip long ago but it's a light hold and she knows it must be important- he wouldn't act this brash if it wasn't. So she doesn't say anything when he pulls the two of them into his room and slumps to sit on his bed, finally dropping her hand so she's just standing there, facing him as he throws his head in his hands and leans over his knees.

She doesn't say anything, waiting for him to speak first and finally he inhales, rising his head just to prop his mouth and chin in his fists and stare at the corner of the wall.

"I lied." He finally breathes.

"I know," she finally answers, kneeling down to be at eye level with him To be honest, she has no idea what's spurred his behavior and she can't imagine why he's acting this way, but in the broadest terms, she understands. They've all lied, she's lied, he's lied-

"No, I mean before."

She frowned.

"Before..?"

"I wasn't thinking bout the song, or regretting what the last thing you'd hear me say..." He stammers off and finally flashes his eyes to meet hers, and she doesn't know what he's looking for in them but he keeps searching her eyes.

"I kept trying to remember what the last thing I heard you say was."

There's a hitch in her breadth but she hides it well and dares to bring a hand up to his hairline. He feels a little clammy and she thinks maybe he pulled off the medication too soon, because he seems a bit shaky and she doesn't think it has anything to do with the mission. There would have been a more wild look in his eyes or more injuries if it was the mission itself.

"Clint..."

"I couldn't remember." He blurts out, and she bites at her lip.

"Does it-"

"Yes," he answers before she can even ask. She thinks a minute, then remarks,

"I told you I was sending the target your way. It was just before you let yourself get caught-"

He shook his head.

"There was something else. Wasn't there? I remember saying something to you-a joke or something. And you said something back," he shook his head. He looked more desperate than that day on the table, at the mercy of a poison that was meant to kill him, and she doesn't understand why this means so much to him.

"I can't remember," He confesses.

Natasha moves to sit next to him, quiet for a moment as she slinks an arm around his shoulders and stares at the ground with him.

"'Can't be any worse than you'."

"What?"

He stares at her while her lips press into a ghost of a smile.

"You asked me, 'What? The guy has two left feet?' and I said, 'Can't be any worse than you'."

Clint blinks, recalling the side joke through the comes and finally smirks to himself, remembering.

"That's what it was..."

Natasha doesn't say anything but slowly she begins rocking and he sways along with her, until finally he feels so tired and drained and she lets him go so he can slide back onto the mattress. She thinks about letting him sleep, but he grips her thigh and she takes the invite to squirm in next to him.

* * *

She honestly thinks he's asleep and she feels herself drifting when from the darkness, he blurts out in a quick whisper,

"I love you."

She always knew as much and she expects the words to come out of his mouth every time he opens it, but it still surprises her. She closes her eyes a minute, debating whether to pretend to be asleep or not, but she knows she can't run away from the confrontation for forever. Her breadth hitches and now she knows it's futile to pretend to be asleep.

His back is still to her, and it's dark, so she's grateful for that, but it's also quiet, and he can hear every breadth she takes.

She opens her mouth to say something. To tell him love is for children. To tell him she loves him. To berate and chastise him because this never should happen and it's gotten out of control and she can't risk that. To tell him she's done with Shield and their identities are already compromised after that fiasco with the aliens and she's tired of going on solo missions, she's tired of being pulled away from him and she's tired of all this high risk and secrecy and lies. She wants to propose they permanently join the Avengers, screw Shield, because as much as she'd never admit it to Tony, this team is the closest thing to a family and she wants nothing more than to be happy beside them with Clint beside her.

Natasha, instead, tells him, "I know."

The next morning, Barton is gone.

* * *

_'Cause you know me better _

_And you know I, _

_I'm shouting your name_

* * *

When he does come back, just a few days later, he's groggy and hungry but nothing he hasn't ever experienced before. He's been on worse stake outs-this particular one was a textbook mission, and he's just eager to return to Stark's tower and crash, maybe find that emergency meds ration seeing as how he ran out of the prescription roughly a day ago. The others don't know when to expect him back, and he's hoping to keep it as a surprise.

Instead, he gets a surprise in the form of Agent Hill approaching him, a look of uncharacteristic relief washing over her face.

"Barton, when did you get in?"

He shrugs at his watch, "a few minutes ago."

She nods, looking between Barton and a file in her hand, debating whether to talk to him or not. Catching this, he straightens his back and nods to the folder.

"Something bothering you, Hill?"

She's straightforward with her response and her face is as expressionless as Natasha's at times. He respects Agent Hill, what with her being second only to Fury. But even she sounds slightly apprehensive when she finally speaks.

"Your under-the-table dealer from earlier? He's shipping in from interrogation and intelligence."

Clint cocks a brow.

"When?"

"Tonight. I have a team assembled to escort him back here to base, but..."

She didn't voice her suspicions, but he understood them anyway. No doubt a fresh team, some new meat with a few rookies thrown into the mix. It was a simple enough assignment. Clint smiled, easing the conversation as he nodded.

"If Agent Hill would request as much, I'll tag along to see to it the extraction is successful-"

She doesn't bother waiting for him to finish, slouching in relief uncharacteristically.

"You are one of the best agents we have, Barton," she nods, and through her speech he knows she's thanking him for taking a load off her shoulders. She hands him the file for the quick debriefing before tapping his shoulder.

"You're fine with this? You did only just get back..."

"I have some time to kill," he shrugs. The others weren't expecting him back... "And this operation will only take a few hours?"

Hill nods.

"You have some time before your team dispatches. You could make it back to the tower..." She suggests, but he shrugs off the invitation. He wouldn't bother returning to the tower, only to leave for another, albeit quick, mission within the hour anyway.

Better to pretend he'd just got in from his first and, as far as the Avenger's 'family' was concerned, only mission later that night than alert them to his over-achieving status as a pushover.

"It'd just upset Nat," He smirks, more to himself than to Hill, who doesn't quite understand his reference and chooses that moment to walk off.

* * *

_Out loud, so loud _

_It's a chemical reaction _

_I can feel the time just slipping by_

* * *

He doesn't know how it got like this, or rather he doesn't understand. He knows that one minute he's hiding his scowl, eyeing the very man who almost lethally injected him only a couple weeks back, and the next minute he's ducking at the sound of gun shots. He hears the spluttering of blood and by the intense jerk and swerve that the truck takes, he knows the driver has been hit. The passenger seat agent is obviously the rookie, no doubt the source of Hill's apprehension, as the instant everything goes under, he's screaming his head off. The second guard stationed with Clint and the prisoner topples over when the truck flips, Barton making a dive for the prisoner.

He gasps out in pain briefly when he shoulder collides with the wall of the truck. His leg twists uncomfortably but he quickly puts pressure on it and the pain disappears. His quiver jabs into his back, Clint shifting the strap when the truck settles, flipped upright once again.

He knows instantly that whoever is attacking, whoever is cutting them off before they can arrive back at base, are trying to intercept them for a reason. He just isn't sure if it's a rescue or a hit.

He catches the flash of a grin of the man, still cuffed to the wall of the truck, but after a moment the grin fades and Barton knows that this man is coming to the same realization that he did.

So even the captive isn't sure if he's wanted dead or alive, or of this interception plan at all.

Barton yells at the passenger seat, who is ducked under the dashboard with his arms held up protectively, yelling an order at him to use the radio and report in to base.

With a snap of his neck, Barton recognizes that the other agent in the back with him is motionless. He squirms to the man's side, checking his pulse quickly under the jaw line. He's breathing, he's just unconscious.

There's gunfire and Barton hears the sparks as the dashboard is hit. He knows the rookie is still alive because he's still screaming. The captive is yelling, trying to alert his presence to his saviors, or to his executioners.

Barton kicks the door open, snatching at his bow (conveniently latched on under his seat, it stayed in place when the truck flipped). He ducks around the side and takes a glance at the attackers, who are encircling the truck.

They're in the middle of no where, some rocky hill coverage providing the cover the assailants' needs. They're quickly surrounding them and Barton only gets a head count of four or five before more bullets push him back behind the truck. He hears the rookie blabbering on about a prayer here and there and a string of curses, but Barton really doesn't want to hear it anymore.

"Get hold of base, have them track our coordinates. Get someone out here, they're after the prisoner! Agent, do you hear me?"

More gun fire and Barton lets an arrow loose. His shoulder is sore where it landed on the quiver when the truck rolled, but he ignores it. He lets shock numb him over and shoots a second arrow.

By the scream, he judges he hit his target.

* * *

The prisoner is still caterwauling for his men to find him. Whatever composed facade he held when he was interrogating Clint is gone now because he sounds far more desperate than Clint ever pretended to be. Clint ignores it and continues yelling at the rookie, letting loose another arrow.

His arm throbs and thinks this is the perfect time for it to act up.

He catches wind that someone is approaching from the back and he whips around to stop them in their tracks. He squats and does a half dive, half run towards the driver's seat. He swings the door open as a shield before diving in, almost colliding with the huddled rookie.

He reaches for the radio, but it's been shot to hell and he tosses it out the window. The rookie is shaking and judging by the smell and a trickle down his chin, he's vomited somewhere in his seat. Barton grimaces and yanks the man by the collar, pulling him out the driver's seat door and dragging his sorry ass back towards the other side of the car. The prisoner is desperately yanking at his cuffed arms. Barton tosses the rookie into the bed of the truck, beside the prisoner.

"What's your name, agent?"

The agent is hyperventilating, and he looks no closer to talking than the attackers look to letting up. Barton sets another bow in the string.

"Agent, what's your name?"

His volume is raised, but his voice is calmer, trying to reason with the agent. Shaking his head, the agent mutters something that Barton barely catches.

"Hendricks..? Hendricks, Agent Hendricks? Right, I need you, Hendricks, to calm down. Alright, do that for me?"

It's then that Barton catches sight of blood and realizes that Hendricks may have been hit, but he doesn't see where the blood is from or what part of him is wounded, so he presumes that the man is in shock. Clint looks back towards the doors, knowing from the silence that the ambush squad is approaching. He needs to hold them at bay, long enough until someone at Shield realizes that they've missed their check point and are somehow being delayed.

He knows it's a long shot, but maybe if the ambush is small enough...

He kicks through the truck door and lets an arrow shoot clean and straight towards his target, watching the man drop. They're emerging out into the open, circling the truck with their guns raised and he knows that them inside are soon to be sitting ducks if they get surrounded.

"Hendricks-Hendricks, you have a first name?"

Hendricks mumbles, but Barton can't make it out. _Shit_, he thinks, letting another arrow free as he catches sight of others making their way towards the truck bed.

"Hendricks, you're new, right?" He yells, his brain wracking for how exactly they'll get out of this. The numbers are more than he expected. The truck is off the road, embedded in some crater-like formation that gives the advantage of the high ground to their enemies. There's a small dip in the hills directly in front of them-if they make a run for it, they can duck behind the hills, assuming no one else is waiting in the cover behind them still anyway.

Barton looks around the bed. He has his bow, a rookie who is otherwise useless and is wounded somewhere, an unconscious agent, and the prisoner, still chained to the wall of the truck. Barton fumbles for the cuff's keys in his pocket, tossing them to Hendricks who, some faint trace of instinct and training finally coming into play, catches the keys.

"Release the prisoner," Barton commands.

Hendricks does so and Barton quickly has the prisoner pinned to his shoulder, his bow at ease as a handheld comes up to the man's temple.

"Let's see what these guys want from you," Barton says, swinging the man outside the truck, gun still to his head but otherwise Barton's own body hidden. The man screams, more like whimpers, something and while Barton hears the guns rise, no shots are fired. Barton lets out a sigh.

So, they want this man alive.

* * *

_Loud, so loud _

_It's a chemical reaction _

_I hold your name up to the sky, so high_

* * *

Natasha fidgets, her fingers tapping on the mug that she's clutching. Banner is staring at her, bluntly, watching her squirm uncomfortably, as she's been doing the past couple of days and nights. Finally, he sighs, setting his glasses and paper down and clearing his throat, calling her attention to him.

She jumps when he does so, and he knows her alertness is no where near it's usual degrees of professionalism. He can only take a guess as to what is bothering her so much.

"Barton mentioned this mission wouldn't be long," he tries. He sees her hands visibly tense, a dead give away that he's struck a nerve, but otherwise she remains composed. Banner nods slowly, taking in all the clues and hints he can perceive. After a minute of judging and weighing in his mind, he finally blurts out the question,

"He loves you, doesn't he?"

As a testimony to her skill, she doesn't so much as blink. But, Banner isn't a genius for nothing, observant in his own right though not nearly on par as the assassins. He still knows that he's hit the bulls eye in such a way that Barton would be proud.

"And you don't love him?"

To Bruce's surprise, her mouth slips open and he visibly sees the pain on her face, the mildest form of rejection. It looks like she's about to answer him, when at that moment Stark walks in and the mask returns. Her eyes are dry and her lips pursed tight, her face composed. Banner silently curses Tony's timing, but says nothing, respecting the privacy of their conversation.

Tony looks between the two.

* * *

Barton makes himself visible, stepping from the truck and raising the gun to the prisoner's temple, eyeing the men surrounding the truck. He leaves his bow in the bed of the truck, along with Hendricks and the unconscious agent, and waits a moment just outside as the men round the truck, gathering in front of Barton and the hostage.

He counts nine, with a possible sniper hiding behind the brush.

"Hendricks, grab-" Barton nods towards the other agent, but Hendrickson is already following up his order. He slumps the guy over his shoulder and limps towards Barton out of the truck. Barton warns the men by jerking the hostage and gun, signaling that they don't make a move as Hendricks slumps out of the truck bed, the other agent in tow.

"Take my bow," Barton says, his voice lowered and calm. Hendricks says nothing but grabs at the bow. This causes several of the ambushing men to raise their weapons hostilely, but Barton shoots them a warning by clicking his hand held in warning. He's a trigger away from killing their target, so they back down, watching as Barton nods Hendricks in the direction of the small clearing.

"Take the agent and get out of here. Get back to base, keep him alive, understand?" He commands. Hendricks is a ball of fretful nerves, and Clint just prays he doesn't screw up this at least. He now can see the blood is coming from his leg, hence the limp, but Hendricks doesn't even seem to be all that aware of the limp. He looks fearfully at Barton, as though questioning him, but Barton gives him no reassurance of following him.

"Hurry," Barton warns, and with that Hendricks limps awkwardly away, his fellow agent in tow. Barton keeps the others at bay, his hostage quivering in his grip. He knows there's a damn good chance he'll be shot in an instant. He can't hope to take the hostage out of here, but he can hold the men at bay long enough to give Hendricks a head start, whether it helps or not. Barton doesn't try to run his luck too long, knowing soon enough the men will wise up and catch him from behind, despite his best efforts to circle and ward them off.

"Hendricks, answer my voice if you hear it. You like knock knock jokes?"

Faintly, he hears Hendricks whimper a half-hearted "Hn" before Barton grinds his teeth.

"Knock knock-"

* * *

Natasha scratches at her arm, her elbows clutched tight to her stomach. The conversation plays over in her head and the thousands of responses she didn't say each have their fair share of a turn in her head before she stands up, shaking her head clear. Imagining 'what ifs' and 'what should haves' does nothing to change the circumstance, so she storms out of her room down towards the lab. A part of her knows if Stark is present, she's screwed, but favorably it's only Banner.

Once, she would have dreaded being alone with the doctor, with no cover or back up on stand by. Now, she feels a wave of relief rush over her that they are, absolutely, alone.

"You're not hear to listen to me lecture on the properties of gamma radiation, are you?" He jokes hopefully. Natasha jsut stares at him, saying nothing.

"If it's not that...it's Barton, isn't it?"

Again, she says nothing.

* * *

He's out of knock knock jokes, but he still faintly can hear Hendricks straining to respond to him. He knows that by now, this distance, Hendricks can't make out with clarity what Barton is yelling, but he can judge by the faintness of his voice how far out Hendricks is. He's slow with his limp and the dead weight of his unconscious partner, but Barton wants to buy them as much time as possible.

So, he belts out singing, not pausing between choruses to wait for Hendricks to respond. He hopes this serves as a countdown, because his arm is throbbing and twitching. He needs to get to the medications soon, but that fantasy has long since slipped from his mind. He wants nothing more than to get back to the tower, but he doesn't fool himself any more.

He knows he won't make it to the tower.

* * *

"You said nothing?"

Natasha shakes her head faintly. "I-I told him...I know." She shrugs, because she doesn't even need to bother waiting for Banner to tell her how dumb that was to have said. Banner doesn't bother repeating what she already knows, so he opts with skipping to the part where he provides advice that will help her move on from the mistake, if she so chooses to accept it.

"Well, if the expected answer to someone telling you they love you isn't the obvious first choice, then that pretty much says how you feel back.."

Natasha shakes her head.

"No, that's not it. I-"

"Natasha," Banner cuts her off. "Whatever you're about to say, to justify yourself with...save it. You're not trying to convince me." He throws his hands up in a sort of surrender, nodding out of his lab. "Save it for Barton."

And slowly Natasha nods, because she understands.

It's just then that the ill-timed Jarvis blurts into the room, "Incoming call from Director Fury of Shield. It's urgent and requests the attention of Miss Romanov, specifically."

* * *

Hendricks is long since out of sight, and Barton can only focus on the throbbing of his arm. He knows the moment he gives, he's either shot, or taken hostage, but he won't hold his breadth for the later. He smiles, just as his veins pulse and his fingers tingle numbly.

"Still no dinner, huh?" He jokes, just as the gun drops. In an instant, someone nearby lurches for him, pinning him down as the hostage is wrestled out from his grip. His hands are twisted behind him and he shakes, a darkness swarming over him just as he chuckles to himself, thinking no doubt they'll get their revenge on him for causing more trouble than they'd, hopefully, anticipated.

* * *

_'Cause you know me better _

_And you know I, _

_I'm shouting your name_

* * *

Barton comes to it twice, momentarily, before consciousness slips from him again. Both times it's bright, like a light shined down on him, and he isn't sure how much time passes between each moment, whether it's even any time at all or if he simply can't grasp whether he's awake or not.

When he solidly comes around, the light is still burning into his eyes and he recognizes it as a spotlight. His eyes close just as feeling returns to his chest and arms and legs. His arm is throbbing and from the wrist down he's numb. His chest is restrained and he's bound at the ankles and forearms to a chair, in an upright seated position. He coughs, but this strain on his chest is more painful than he imagined and it takes him quite a while before he can calm the surge of pain in his lungs and heart.

He hears voices and it's only then he recognizes that he's alive. He's being kept as a hostage, maybe, or simply for some sport of revenge.

He confirms it's the latter when he feels a grip on his jaw and his eyes shoot open, to face an unfamiliar man who generically looks like all the rest. He feels a sharp pain in his fingers and it mildly registers to him that he's being tortured, but he's still half out of it.

His mind floats between the pain and memories until he focuses on a trail of thoughts. He recalls his conversation with Natasha, smirking when he realizes this 'could be the end'. His eyes are closed again, so he doesn't see the look on the face of his captor, but he knows it's not a pleasant one because a moment later he's paying for his smile.

_"Can't be any worse than you,"_ he thinks, a trail of blood overflowing from his cracked smile.

No, wait, that wasn't the last thing she said to him, he recalls. That's right, time passed, he survived that.

_"I know."_

He ignores how his heart tugs a bit at that memory-his smile is still there, but it's only the ghost of one.

At least he told her, he thinks. No regrets there.

* * *

"If you die one me," She mutters, and she's thankful that the only one who hears her is Banner. Stark isn't even inside the Quinjet, scouting ahead. Steve is commanding orders through their com links and Banner is fidgeting, keeping the 'other guy' at bay. Natasha has to give him some credit. If she had 'another guy' in her, it would have been released the moment Fury had briefed the avengers on the circumstance.

Agent Hill had off-handedly admitted to Natasha, just before the team had boarded the Quinjet, of Barton's acceptance of the unofficial mission. He wasn't even supposed to be a part of the damn thing, she thought. Agent Hendricks had contacted Shield just a half mile out from where the ambush had taken place, patching through to command. Within the hour, a tracking system had been set up to find and trace Barton, who was missing at the scene, and medical had taken in Hendricks and his partner for treatment.

The moment Barton's trace was tracked to a remote safe house only a few hours out, Natasha was personally flying the Quinjet tot he destination.

Banner coughed, looking back to check that Steve really was out of earshot, before gravely turning to Natasha.

"I'm not an agent myself, and I'm sure there's countless training and preparation for this sort of...scenario. But, as a doctor, I feel somewhat obliged to remind you the chance that we don't make it in time, or that we don't find agent Barton, or worse that-"

"Banner." She snapped, and grew quiet after that.

She didn't need him to remind her.

* * *

_Out loud, so loud _

_It's a chemical reaction _

_I can feel the time just slipping by_

* * *

When Barton woke what he thought was a fourth time but accurately was well around his twelfth or thirteenth, he swore he saw a flash of red locks, characteristically belonging to none other than Natasha. It was a flash, however, and then there was light and he slipped unconscious yet again.

Clint came to it a fifth (fourteenth) time, this time around fully awake and while still sore and in pain, no longer as restrained as before. He felt needles in his skin and the tingle of drugs throughout his body, but quickly realized they weren't as unwelcomed as he first assumed. The bright blur settled to be a familiar room setting of the Shield's very own infirmary.

He sighed in relief when all ten of his fingers flexed and curled at his command.

Whatever else pain he felt was unimportant and despite the pounding in his head that threatened to split his skull, he somehow slipped easily back to sleep.

He knew it was hours later when he did reawaken, this time not alone. Beside him, he could make out the folded over figure of Natasha, sleeping against his side, half out of her chair and half on his cot, and he smirked.

* * *

Natasha woke up, instantly feeling a pair of eyes fixated on her. She jumped up to find Barton wide awake, grinning like an idiot at her. She glared at him for a moment, challenging him to question her for her childish behavior of sleeping by his side, before it dawned on her that he was awake.

She ignored his bandages and wires and jumped half on him, gripping him in a hug that he was far from expecting.

"Tasha-?"

Then she slapped him. Twice.

"You bastard!"

Three times for good measure.

"You-"

"I love you," he blurted out, for the second time. If she wasn't ready to hear it the first time, the second time really caught her off guard.

He knew she'd chastise him again. Worse, he prepared himself to watch her walk out, just leave him and never come back. Resign as his partner, maybe even request his own defection. He'd been compromised. He closed his eyes. He thought he was prepared to watch her walk away, but maybe he was still weak from the drugs and blood loss because he realized he wasn't ready to let her go.

Well, he should have thought of that before he blurted out, for a second time, the one thing the Black Widow refused to want to hear.

In his defense, while the Black Widow refused to acknowledge those words, Natasha Romanov found them almost comforting to hear.

"I love you," she quips back, and he snapped his eyes open.

That's right, how much medication was he shot up on right now?

Her eyes searched his, waiting for him to say something. He was starting to doubt this was a hallucination, so he tried again.

"I love you."

She shook her head, relief flooding over her.

"If that's the last thing I hear you say-" she warned.

"I know," he answered. He wouldn't let it be.

"I love you," she breathed again, and he felt just as relieved as she did, slipping back into contented sleep. She really said it.

* * *

_Loud, so loud _

_It's a chemical reaction _

_I hold your name up to the sky, so high_

* * *

It eats away at Stark when the duo walk in the morning for breakfast and act completely normal. Because nothing out of the ordinary happened and there was no reason for them to act any different. Clint pops a pill before gulping down a cup of heavy coffee and Natasha picks at the morning's fruit selection.

No one else seems bothered and Natasha even catches the small smile Banner throws her way when they both take silent note of how strung up Stark looks, trying to figure out just what is between the two.

Natasha just sits back, waiting for Tony to snap and when he finally does it ends in a counter covered in milk and Tony being hit with an apple.

Oddly enough, Clint comes to Tony's defense in chiding, humorously, Natasha for attacking their 'mother'.

"Mama's boy," she mouths, playfully trying to egg him on.

His revenge is far less subtle.

"Bye, bye Miss American pie-"

* * *

**A/N: **Firstly, I'm sure anyone reading this recognizes the song as beign sung by Jeremy Renner in his role in 'Love comes to the Executioner'. That's right, I caved and included it because that scene gets to me and it did intitially inspire this whole chapter, if you couldn't tell by the obviousness T_T If you can find it in yourself to forgive me for such blatant rip-off...

Can you tell that sometimes I even forgot whetehr Thor was present or not? Dead give away that I wrote this story over the course of several days and re-read little of my own work, as opposed to normally where write it all in one sitting, let it digest for a few days, and then post it after I convince myself it's better than I initially thoguht when I finished writing it ;3

The romance bits seem rushed and underdeveloped...(I'll work on that...)

So there's a lot about this one shot I don't like. It's similar to the first chapter-I just love putting Clint in these kinds of positions and ahving poor Natasha sit side line? I really just needed to get over this inspiration block that fed off the fact I hadn't posted anything. Sorry! Maybe I'll rewrite and repost this chapter later...What's worse, I have the ideas for the other chapters, it's just difficult for me to sit down and write them! (But I promise they're better than this one! T_T)

(I'm really not doing these songs justice :p)

Alright, enough of me blabbing on about this; this chapter is long enough for that XD


	4. When We Were Young

Firstly, thank you to everyone who has reviewed or alerted or faved this collection of oneshots-It means so much to me, it's beyond inspiration and I'm just overwhelmed to find people who share in a love for these characters as well as actually take the time to read these, so...thank you :)

This story focuses around scenes from the movie, as well as scenes from Iron Man 2 and Thor respectively. A lot of stories on this site focus on the heavier scenes between Natasha and Clint from the movie, so I tried to avoid those scenes as much as possible (The interrogation scene, the fight scene, the scene where Clint reawakens; specifically the origin of where Barton infamously recruits rather than kills Natasha) Because there are so many better stories out there that disect those scenes far better than I ever could, so I avoided those and you can pick whichever one of the many wonderful stories out there to integrate with this one, if you'd like :p

This one shot is a bit more drabbley than the others, less plot and more focus on delving into the individual scenes gathered from the collective movies~

Disclaimer: I own niether the franchise, characters, or album 'A Minor Bird' by Sucre, to which this song 'When We Were Young' is derived from

* * *

_When We Were Young_

* * *

_You say that you're leaving _

_That your hands are only dust _

_And the boy loves you _

_Oh, he loves you so much _

* * *

"I have an assignment for you, Agent Romanov."

Without giving much thought, she shrugs, instinct drawing her to the file Fury has presented her.

"Are we going to wait for Barton?" She murmurs nonchalantly.

"Barton isn't with you on this one. It's a solo."

She quickly clears her throat, berating herself inwardly for assuming.

"What is it, then?" She's capable enough to perform a solo mission-she's done countless of them before. There's a slight security of having Barton involved, but by no means is she dependant on him. She imagines this will be no different-a quick in and out mission; maybe a theft or even an assassination, though this line of work tends to avoid those more than her previous occupation. The old her would have described it as being 'softer', but now she recognizes it as being 'moral'.

"You're just going to observe."

She scoffs, "That sounds more like Barton's kind of job."

Fury doesn't so much as blink.

"The target is a billionaire. He's causing a bit of a scene, nothing hostile. He's friendly enough, we need to implant you within his circle for observation and evaluation. He has a few loose screws and the degree of unpredictability waivers on this guy. A lot. We also are looking into him as a part of the Avengers initiative."

Natasha raises a brow.

"That sounds more like my kind of job."

She opens the file and flips through the introduction paperwork-until she reaches the photo and biography report. Her shoulders drop.

"You've got to be kidding me." She throws the photo up, rather appalled at Fury. "Stark?"

Fury sympathizes with her, she knows it, but his face gives away nothing. After she lets it sink in that he's not kidding, he finally steps past her, leaving her and the files and a final word for thought, "You're one of our best. I can count on you to carry this out."

Natasha mutters a quick Russian curse before picking up the file and striding out of the room, desperate to find a specific sparring partner to blow off the frustration of her latest assignment.

* * *

"I leave tomorrow," She breathes out, taking a quick swig of water as her partner, seated in his own corner of the ring, pats his brow down with a towel.

"Tomorrow?" He sounds a little bothered, but she ignores it. He can't be any more distraught than she is, she bitterly reminds herself.

"Just some simple infiltration. I'm to 'observe and evaluate'."

Clint frowns. "Sounds more like my kind of thing."

"It's Stark."

He nods, "_That _is your territory."

She's flattered that her skill set is being so highly recommended in regards to the infamous Tony Stark. So much flattered that she glares at Clint, causing him to chuckle lightly. It's fake and she knows it but she's grateful none the less because he means it as a gesture to try and sooth her. Sighing, she leans against the ropes, just as he stands.

"It shouldn't be too long. Infiltrate his company, close enough to keep an eye on him but with enough distance to not draw too much attention-"

"-Clint, I know how to do my job."

"-watch him for a week or two, and report that he's a raging drunkard playboy with little self-control."

She snorts.

"You've already got him pegged, you can write the report."

He laughs again, this time with a little more sincerity, but it still isn't as comforting as if he genuinely was laughing.

"Well, at least it's an easy job," He murmurs, but she catches the underlying meaning. Her eyebrows pinch in a scowl and she quickly rises back to her feet.

"Wait, you got an assignment, too?"

He nods hesitantly, "Yeah, Coulson briefed me on it this morning."

"You weren't going to tell me?" She asks, hiding the pang of discomfort in finding out about this only now.

He shrugs.

"I'm telling you now."

She ignores him, her face hardening in that too familiar scowl that he's already memorized and dissected and rebuilt a thousand times over in his head before.

"Where is it?"

He sniffs, rubbing his nose. "Tibet."

"A recon? Assassination? Intel?"

"Confidential."

At this she glares, irritated that it's now been twice that he's tried to disclose information from her.

"Clint," she warns, her voice low and demanding, stepping into his personal space as she eyes him. He watches her, his face unreadable as he merely blinks before he sighs and rubs his neck.

"Tasha, I'm tired. I'm going to catch some shut eye before-"

"When do you leave?"

He doesn't respond and she knows it's before she does.

"Tonight," she answers for herself.

Again, he says nothing but his silence confirms it.

"And you really won't tell me what it's about?"

There's a pause, and finally he smirks, and this time it's a genuine smile.

"You'll break into the files and read up on the mission the moment I'm gone anyway."

She shrugs, unable to argue with that.

* * *

"I'd spend it however the hell I wanted to, with whoever the hell I wanted to."

Her answer surprises her, because it's the most honest thing she's said to Stark since her arrival and because it's too personal for her tastes. The moment he leaves the room, she knows he'll take her words and run with it, and somehow she'll feel guilty for spurring on his behavior.

But, in that moment, she can't quite shake the fact that the moment she said those words, a certain face came to mind.

She looks out the window, giving herself a moment's breather as she wonders how his mission is going.

True to his words, she broke into the file the next morning, right before she'd departed to become Natalie Rushman, a secretary to Stark Industries. She knew the mission was a quick one-hell, he might already be back at base by now. She also knew he wasn't particularly fond of the cold weather, and maybe just to rub it in his face she thought about picking up some souvenir down at one of the local shops, maybe some fresh homegrown strawberries or something equally as insulting.

Her response does prompt the question, just what exactly is 'however' and who is 'whoever' that she'd want to spend her, hypothetically, last birthday with?

She tries to think of the perfect location; of all the places she'd been, but none are remotely pleasant memories and tied to all of them are fake identities and blood stained pasts. She'd imagine she'd want to be somewhere that she felt like Natasha, not 'Natalie' or 'Sonya' or any other of her numerous aliases.

And she'd want to be with people close to her, who knew her.

Strange how her final birthday scenario scene looks a lot like the previous night from not to long ago, sitting in a sparring ring opposite her partner.

The pleasant thoughts are cut short when she hears commotion from below and knows Stark is already stirring up trouble. In a moment, she finds Ms. Potts and an intoxicated Stark, and she can't help but think how this 'observe and evaluate' job is turning out to be more like a baby sitting gig.

* * *

The moment Tony peels from the parking lot, Natasha has pulled out her cell phone, peering around to make sure no one is present, and she phones in Coulson.

"Stark was just here. He appears to be returning back home-"

"So that's where he went?" Coulson sighs from the receiver's end. "How's he look?"

"Better. He looks...inspired. I don't think we'll have to worry about him cleaning up his sorry ass for too much longer," she smirks, and she means it. The sooner Stark gets her shit together, the sooner she can return to base.

"I've been reassigned," Coulson drops, sparing no small talk or ease into the reveal. Natasha switches ears, flipping the phone over in her hand.

"Reassigned? Where to?"

"New Mexico. Something's come up."

Natasha scoffs, shaking her head. "Unbelievable. And I'm..?"

"Still needed here."

"-To clean up after Stark's mess?"

He doesn't bullshit her. "Something like that."

"Have fun in New Mexico," she frowns, again pondering if Stark will even live to see her mission through.

Again, Coulson doesn't bother waiting or beating around the bush.

"Barton will be there."

"Clint?" She asks, a little too quickly. It's not encouraged nor is it exactly taboo to refer to an agent by their first name, so personally. But it's Coulson, and he knows both agents, and he knows how close they are. Coulson hesitates a moment, before slowly nodding (She can't see it but she knows he's doing it).

"Yes. We're rendezvousing at the checkpoint. We're not sure what exactly is out there, but the radiation it's giving off is attracting attention and Shield is trying to get a jump on it before any others make a move."

Natasha understands, her eyes still scanning the corners of the office in case someone ventures too near.

"Right." Is all she responds with, but Coulson waits because he knows she wants to say more. Send a message along to Barton, as they don't keep in contact while on separate missions, where communication is limited.

She swallows quickly and thinks, but finally decides she doesn't have anything to say, and is about to give a quick, curt goodbye when Coulson cuts her off, "I'll inform him you're doing fine."

She's grateful, but like hell she'll let Coulson know that. She hangs up quickly, cutting off her own quick goodbye prematurely. She smoothes down her skirt, flips her phone back into her pocket, and wanders off to find and follow Ms. Potts to her next meeting for the afternoon.

* * *

_Will you trust me _

_Like you did when we were young? _

_When we were young_

* * *

When she first started off at Shield, she wasn't exactly the easiest to get along with. She was adjusting and trying so desperately to prove her loyalty and show that she wanted to be here-she wanted to set her life straight on a more worthy path (Not that what she did now made her a hero or anything). She'd been sharp at the tongue and quick in retaliation. She'd been difficult to handle and few bothered trying to.

Except, of course, Clint.

His patience was his virtue, and no matter how many cruel things she'd yell at him or tricks she'd try to break him, it never worked. He wasn't one to fall to taunts and acts. So, she'd resort to attacking, and he'd prove just as effective in spars and defenses as she was. He was near impossible to break.

The first time she honestly saw him do so was on a mission, just the two of them. He was barking orders through her com and she had ignored well over half of them. She had infiltrated the base while he sat up in his nest, a safe distance from the action, acting as sniper and picking up any targets she left behind. He was yelling at her to get out, that the mission had been compromised as back up was filling in from every exit and it was too much for him to take out.

She insisted, however, that she could continue. The mission wasn't complete and she had a great deal of confidence that she could finish it. He questioned how exactly she planned to escape, with every exit outnumbering her far too greatly.

Her response was to remark in such a clichéd fashion, "I'll figure something out,", followed by tossing the earpiece to the side, moving on without waiting for Barton's response.

Needless to say, he looked terrifyingly livid when he burst in from behind her not but a few minutes later, bow drawn and a profusely bleeding bullet wound in his side. She had been cornered and his timing was impeccable, releasing three quick arrows and clearing her path.

She was more than a little surprised to see him having left his nest, loosing the high ground, but before she could yell anything about how stupid he was, he had pulled her to her feet and was pushing her onward, yelling something about the mission.

At the time she was trying to keep her distance from him, and refused to appear too concerned about his well being. So it bothered her more than him that she kept stealing glances at his side, the wound going mostly unattended to as he hobbled along in a limping sprint beside her, yanking her every other direction towards their targeted room on the top floor.

At one point, he stopped using his bow and arrows, and when she managed a glance at his quiver she noticed he only had one arrow left. She didn't ask why he was saving it, because he still had a gun on him and he was just as skilled with that as his bow, so it didn't matter to her.

The moment their mission was completed, from a target stand point, she stood up, turning to face him. They were locked in the top floor's room, the single exit door being barricaded by makeshift weights of desks and whatever else Barton could find. It hit her then that they really needed to come up with an escape, because though she didn't want to admit it she really didn't feel like dying over some stupid mission as this was.

Barton was ahead of her, however, with his bow in hand and fingers on the custom controls, the single arrow fitting into an arrow head as he made his way towards a south-facing window.

With a quick kick, the window shattered and he posed his aim across the property, to a neighboring building roof.

"What are you doing?" She asked, though in all honesty it was pretty obvious. He sent the arrow sailing, a cable line streaming behind it.

He jerked the end in her direction.

"Agent Romanov, if there's anything I hope you take out of your experience with me as your partner, I hope it's the concept of a partner itself."

She stared at him, confused. When she didn't move, he briskly pushed her towards the window, slipping the cable into her fist and clenching it around the wire for her with her hand. She still stared at him bewildered. What was he lecturing her about for?

"Partners listen to the other, as instructed, and they watch each other's back. You put your partner first and foremost-not the mission, but your partner." He didn't even ask her permission of give warning before he picked Natasha up by the waist, slinging her onto the window sill. It was at this moment she decided to jerk to attention, trying to squirm out of his grip but unable to do so.

"W-wait, what are you doing? Idiot, how will you escape?"

He smiled, and it was the first time she'd seen him genuinely smile.

"I'll figure something out."

He pushed her, and the last fleeting image she had of him was that damn smile of his, framed by an empty quiver and a now useless bow.

* * *

"You cut your hair?"

She looks up when he walks in, a towel draped over his shoulder as he's fresh from the showers. She's slowly lacing up her boots to go in for her own trial down in training, though she sits up straight when he makes his way over and sits beside her.

"Do you remember the mission where we became partners?"

He scratches behind his ear, "You mean the first mission? When I was simply to observe your behavior to evaluate your loyalty stand point-"

"No."

And he knows which one she's talking about, because they weren't really partners until after that mission.

"Nostalgic, are we, Natasha? What about it?"

"Do you remember how we got out of there?"

"I remember sending you down-"

"Not how I got out, not the first time. The second time, when we both got out."

He grins, "You came back for me. You almost compromised the mission. Twice."

Her face hasn't changed, she's still staring at him and reading him when he answers, before she finally responds,

"Your partner comes first, before the mission."

He smiles at her, a playful smirk that lingers only for a second before it falls. Natasha dodges her eyes around his face quickly before remarking,

"You need to shave."

* * *

"It's in Russia," is all she says. His back is turned to her and she can't see what he's doing with his hands but she sees his shoulders rotate and she assumes he's twiddling with an arrowhead, some final tweaks here and there.

"Interrogation?"

"Something like that," she answers as she steps around him so she can see his face. She instinctively looks to his neck. The bandages are long gone but he's still been told to take it easy as of late. He straightens up and looks at her, noticing her eyes on him, and he sighs.

"Remember New Mexico?"

Natasha raises a brow.

"The Tesseract?"

He nods.

"Coulson wants me there."

"Isn't Dr. Selvigg apart of that?"

He nods again.

He scoffs, and it's a real smile but it's bitter.

"Right. You going to be alright?"

"I told you-it's interrogation." And that answers his question.

"Hey, Nat," He calls, just as she's turned around to exit. She looks back at him and his expression has changed. For a moment, it scares her.

"Don't die on me out there, alright?"

Her expression doesn't change but he can tell by the twitch in her fingers, momentarily, that his comment irritates her, insults her.

"You can't get rid of me that easily. I still owe you, remember that."

He chuckles, "Still going on about that?"

She doesn't say anything. He sobers up and nods, understanding. To them, the debt is precious; even if he deems it unnecessary. As far as he's concerned, she's already repaid him. But he'll let her continue using that excuse, until the day she finally lives up to the promise and they're left with nothing. He doesn't say so, but he actually fears the day that happens. Because when she finally does repay him, then there will be nothing holding her to him.

"What, are you going soft, Agent Barton?" She scoffs, noticing how there's a faded smile forming on his lips and his eyes are distant, no longer focused on her as she crosses her arms.

He smirks, and it's genuine.

"Sure."

That's the most terrifying thing.

* * *

The Tesseract is acting up, and he's been watching it for well over a couple of hours now. He hears the rumors that Fury is personally expected to arrive any minute. Occasionally Selvigg yells something up at him-he's irritated that the "hawk" stays rooted up in his "nest" but it's how he sees best. With a wide view range, he can see every exit and watch every personnel.

It flares and it's powering the entire building, so lights flicker when it surges and it's clear something is disturbing it. He looks between the scientists and agents below, and finally settles his eyes on that blue cube again, waiting for the handle to pull and the door to swing open. Because it's a gateway, and because doors do open from both ways.

For comfort, he wraps his arms around the railing and leans his chin into them. So he's on baby sitting duty for a tantrum-pulling energy source while Natasha is fraternizing at some extravagant party. He would say he's drawn the short straw but really it doesn't bother him that much. What does bother him is how on edge Natasha seemed when they departed the other night, and he reminds himself that when he sees her next, he'll try apologizing. He doesn't really understand what for or why he needs to, but maybe it's a start.

He finally determines that he'll ask her about it, when they see each other next.

Then, Fury is standing there calling him down and he whips his attention back to the Tesseract and his current mission. Natasha can wait, he thinks, dropping down the cable as the evacuation sirens beep muffled around him.

He bets she's eating caviar right about now.

* * *

_You say that you're wilting _

_But I don't see it at all _

_You're a thousand things _

_You can fly with one wing _

* * *

Selvigg goes on about what materials he needs, where and when. Loki smiles, looking around the make shift base as his workers set about themselves; his slaves, his comrades. All willing and yet not at the same time. His eyes fall on the first target, the first to fall under his control.

"Your name?" He demands. It's not important to him, other than something to call by.

"Agent Clint Barton," he answers.

"Of Shield, is it now?" He asks. He has familiarized slightly with this world, this Midgard, though only enough to satisfy necessary details. He has some time, he thinks, before his plan of action can take place. And he needs to gather more information.

The agent nods and Loki suspects he's as good as any to extract said information from.

"Tell me, what of Shield you can. Tell me all their secrets, their weaknesses, their surprises."

The Agent obeys, going into great depths and details of Shield's purposes and motives. It's all textbook answers that they drill into rookies and Loki grows bored easily.

"What of the Tesseract? What has the mortals of this realm gathered on it thus far?"

This is where the agent falls short-his knowledge isn't as extensive as Loki would've suspected, and he recalls later to ask the scientist, who is busy building and constructing around the Tesseract, for a better fill on what the humans have gathered.

The agent does slip up something about a past conflict, a classified mission and the name 'Captain America' comes up. When Loki inquires this seemingly narcissistic, pompous figure, he's met with the interesting account of an 'Avenger's Initiative'.

It's at this moment that his brother's name comes up, and Loki, in spite of himself, snarls.

"So dear brother is in league with this initiative, is he now?"

"The whereabouts and communicational status of the suspect known as Thor are undetermined as of the moment," the agent responds, but Loki doubts his brother will remain idle once it reaches his ears of Loki's return. No doubt that fun reunion is already being set in motion.

He smirks at the thought of the dark magic that will be gathered to send his brother. Oh, that'll put a stain, a damper, in his day. Having to resort to so low and tabooed arts and magic.

The agent continues with his report, and Loki grows rather interested in the mention of a specific Doctor Banner, of 'Hulk' familiarity. He pries the report on such a magnificent sounding monster, unstable and feared even amongst Shield's top agents, and a plan forms in Loki's mind.

"And, he'll no doubt be brought in from hiding?" He asks, interested.

"His gamma radiation studies are on par to no one. He's still under Shield surveillance and will no doubt be called upon for the tracking of the Tesseract," Barton assures him.

Loki thinks a moment.

"So, this is who stands in my way? A make shift team of legends and monsters under a proposed plan of unification? Even I can see the cracks in that armor. Play them against themselves and..."

The idea is set in motion and, satisfied, he rolls his shoulders back, relaxed as his scepter falls to his side.

Curious and content, he turns back to the agent.

"Then I propose a plan. To help...push along our fated heroes," he snickers, "Give them a bit of chaos, divide them. It's inevitable they'll be sought after, for, so the threat is very real and must be dealt with. I'll play them into my hands, it's all too easy," he muses.

"I suggest caution," the agent suddenly remarked, snapping Loki from his reverie.

"What?" He asks, slightly taken aback by the agent's words, for daring to stand up to his authorities.

"Humans aren't all to be underestimated," the agent responds. His words are rather insulting, but his tone means well and Loki can tell it's difficult, the scepter's control over this agent's heart and mind. He's fighting it.

Loki means to break him for the impudence.

"What possibly could restore your faith in their success? Have you not seen what the Tesseract shows? It shows truth and the inevitable; this is the future. Yet, you'd fight it?"

"I only mean to warn you, sir."

It's insulting how honest his precaution is, and Loki, more irritated now, slumps his shoulders and scowls.

"You mean to say they have a chance to stop me?"

"I mean to say there's a chance that, if my presumption of your capture is correct, they could very well undermine you."

Loki pauses a moment, then responds, "How so?"

"They have ways of extracting information. Ways not to be taken lightly."

"Interrogations? I hardly think I will fall victim to whatever heinous torture you petty humans can come up with."

There's a moments hesitation, and Loki catches it.

"Rather...who does the interrogation?"

Again, a pause, and now Loki knows the agent is fighting whatever information he's forcibly revealing.

"Agent Romanov."

It comes out through gritted teeth and Loki grins madly when realization hits him.

"Tell me...you warned of weaknesses, did you not? I have asked of the weaknesses to Shield's defenses, to their fall back plan, and you tried to warn me to guard my own, yet all this time I haven't heard a word from you of yours..."

He grins because he can read it through those blue eyes, strangely hypnotizing and enticing in how vulnerable and cold they appear.

"Tell me about this...Agent Romanov. You're positive she'll come to see me?"

"I am."

"Why's that?"

"Because of me."

Loki's smile widens immensely.

"Interesting...tell me about her."

* * *

_Who will brace me _

_From my painful, sudden fall_

* * *

She doesn't fear much; fear is a weakness. But only fools fear nothing, and being foolish is worse than admitting when one is afraid.

So she's both a fool and afraid as she waits patiently in the small abode, at the outskirts of the town. She hears a truck roll by and instinct tells her Banner is near. A moment later, she hears the pitter patter of the girl's feet (A local they paid off) as she leads Banner into the house. A minute later, she's slipped out the window.

Banner is suspicious, and rather than let curiosity fester in him and possibly spark his anger, she makes herself known.

He looks tired and wary and cautious and otherwise harmless. He's a drained man in rags and blended well with the poverty he's submerged himself in.

But Natasha knows better than to ease up around him.

She knows the beast behind those drained eyes and she knows she has more reason to fear him than he does to fear her.

He asks if she's here to kill him, and the irony would have her laughing at any other situation. She could kill Coulson right about now, for sending her here. She's uncomfortable and nervous and afraid. She would have put up a fight and argued until the moon fell on taking up this assignment had it been under any other circumstance.

But she's standing here, afraid and petrified and on pins and needles, because without this man, this doctor who when rubbed the wrong way could very well kill her and all the men surrounding them, they have no hope in finding Barton.

So she sets aside her fear and hesitates with the gun in her hand because as much as he pushes her and as much as she's afraid, she refuses to leave without his cooperation one way or another.

Because Barton would have done the same and because she needs to find him.

* * *

The scientist's design is nearly complete, and Loki is all too eager to begin it. The Tesseract acts as the command; it shows and instructs the scientist and for that Loki doesn't bother with overseeing too much of the details. He plots and plans and meditates, awaiting the signal to move his plan into action.

He finally approaches the scientist, worn and weathered with stubble and almost a deranged, drunkard high of power and knowledge. He babbles on about the Tesseract-Loki has seen it all, he only half listens to the doctor's bewildered amazement. He turns to the faithful servant, the agent,

"What has it shown you?"

"My next target."

He's a god to these mortals, yet even he can't deny the irksome feeling when the agent responds. The other mortals are so petty, so engulfed by the Tesseract. They worship it with all their being and fall at their knees before it. Like the engineering scientist, so engrossed in the Tesseract and all that it has shown him. It's shown knowledge and worlds and opened his mind to everything beyond the capabilities of human thoughts.

But the agent is different.

He is strict and treats this no different than a mission. The Tesseract shows him targets and goals, never knowledge and truth. Orders. And he stands, watching the agent, wondering what is it this agent refuses to see.

* * *

Natasha keeps her calm in the face of the makeshift team. They bicker and argue and their tension is as audible as their breathing to her ears. Inwardly, she's a child, throwing a tantrum that Fury is holing her up inside the Hellicarrier rather than tracking Barton herself. But she knows it would do her no good being anywhere else but here. If they find a trace on Barton, this is the first place that will be alerted.

Recruiting Banner was fun, to say the least. Coulson owes her one, she settles on. The moment she reaches the control room, strolling in with Banner and Rogers at her heel, she makes towards the screen. It's a faint hope, but she taps the screen to tracking Barton's vitals and location.

Still concealed.

Then, there's a reading. She jumps alert-it's Loki. She doesn't even need to glance at Fury before she's heading towards the copilot position in the Quinjet. Like he'd assign any other agent other than her, when there's a chance Barton might be with him.

* * *

It's all a fuzzy blur to Barton, but he distinctively recognizes that whatever he's doing, he shouldn't. He's fumbling through the security, bow in hand, and flash forwards to handling some metal. His mind is screaming but all he acknowledges is that the mission is complete and he needs to return to Selvigg, resource in hand, to complete the mission. He doesn't so much as bother asking or questioning what the mission is-he just moves along with his orders.

In the back of his mind, he almost praises himself for so flawlessly achieving the goal set to him by the Tesseract.

* * *

Through the mirror, she catches sight of Loki. She's read over Fury's report and she knows damn well that he's the cause of Barton's predicament. She has half a mind to jump from her seat and unleash a full reel on him, just shoot point blank until her gun burns out or he bleeds dry-whichever comes first. But shooting hardly ever does anything, at least when answers are involved. That, and she's needed to fly.

She has questions, and she isn't Barton, but she still can muster enough patience to wait out until the appropriate time.

There's storm interference; thunder, and she hears the snide remark directed towards the prisoner. She mockingly scowls at his fear, ignoring the sensible side that is warning her 'this was all too easy; he wants to be here'. That doesn't matter now. She could care less what his goal is-she just wants to know what he needs of Barton. Where is Barton.

When Thor makes himself known, Natasha recognizes him, simply through Barton's description of the guy (Though the surveillance footage from New Mexico helps the identification as well). In an instant, Loki is yanked off the Quinjet, but Natasha has dealt with enough crazy today not to panic immediately. Stark is off after them, and despite her half-hearted attempt to warn him, Rogers follows.

With a heavy sigh, Natasha lowers the Quinjet.

* * *

She doesn't have clearance by Fury, but she knows even he couldn't stop her. Loki is up to something and Fury knows damn well that she's the only one capable of playing off his ego to learn his motive. This is strictly an interrogation, another mission. She's professional and will play with whatever tactics to smuggle the truth from him.

She might try her luck in getting out a word or two on Barton, but she won't press it if that hinders her original intention. She thinks she's confident on where she stands in the relationship-the partnership-between herself and Barton, but there's an uneasiness that warns her not to pry too heavily into that topic of discussion. She won't admit it, but it scares her.

Just like it scares her that she doesn't know where Barton is.

And the moment Loki notices her presence, he already acts too familiar with her. He knows her name-a bit of her is impressed, that he would bother to familiarize himself enough with the enemy. Immediately she recognizes how to get him to talk. He's as power-lustful as they come, and it's all too easy to play off that weakness of his, that cockiness. She was hoping to leave Barton out of this, but now she realizes it's the exact opposite. Barton is the key to getting this guy to fess up, to twist his words against him.

"I owe him a debt."

It's not a lie. She hasn't lied yet. She doesn't spare him the story, her past with Barton. It's not a secret and if it will open up this God to talking then she'll tell it a hundred times over. He catches her off guard when he mentions the details she did leave out-the fire and so on he continues. It catches her off guard but it doesn't derail her. She's come to terms with those events long ago and he's just entangling himself further in her web.

"Thank you for your cooperation," She mocks, turning to leave in haste. She refuses to admit that she is shaken, to the core. His words have reached her, just like he meant them to and just like she hoped to avoid. But if he's the scorpion, stinging into her back, then she is the frog, and together they'll sink. They're both sinful people, and if it took breaking her to break him, then she doesn't regret it for an instant.

Because they're now one step closer to stopping him, and that's a step closer to finding where is Barton.

* * *

Her answer comes in the form of a blast, followed (After a rather close run-in with the infamous 'other guy') by a com link conformation that Barton has boarded with Hellicarrier. And is responsible for the engine failure and bulk of the damage (Though the 'other guy' is now hot on his trail in the department of damage coverage).

"Does anyone copy?" Fury demands, exasperated.

She's shaken and afraid and in pain. She also now has her wish granted-she knows where Barton is.  
"This is Agent Romanov. I copy."

* * *

_When we were young _

_I never had to worry _

_I never even cared _

_'Cause something always came my way _

* * *

She's exhausted and sore but adrenaline is numbing her nerves as she watches the medics lift Barton onto the sling. She's just now beginning to feel shaken and it's finally dawning on her what happened. They've sparred before and they never hold back, but they've never fought before with such intent to kill.

Natasha even suspects when he first found her, on that fateful mission, that he wasn't as focused as he was now on killing her. He was human back then, with free will and thoughts of his own and a conscious. Now, just then, he'd been a shell with eyes that she neither recognized nor recognized her.

She limped alongside the medics-like hell she'd leave his side now. One tried to shuffle her to the side, to stop, to see to her own injuries. She elbowed the man to keep moving, he was blocking her path to follow Barton.

From where she walked, she could see he closed eyes, swollen and dark from lack of sleep. She swallowed down any emotion other than urgency because right now he needed to be restrained-it wasn't confirmed if he was fully himself again yet or not, and if they wanted to try to treat him or keep him from harming himself or anyone else, they needed to do it now while he was out.

She doubted he'd rested for a moment, even from before the mission. As an agent, they slept little to begin with-always alert and always working their bodies into overtime as needed. From the interaction Natasha had with Loki, and what she could gather from such an interview, she doubted Loki's magic trick, this hold he had on the minds of Barton and the other agents under him, allotted for any down time or sleep.

She shuddered to think what a state they'd find the doctor in, who was less use to the strain of going days without sleep as Barton was accustomed to.

The medics were agents themselves and did well to hold their ground, binding Barton down in the chair and injecting a few sedatives into him, to slow his mind and perhaps loosen the control of magic on him. They were preparing for the worse, already arranging for, if necessary, lethal precautions. This was where Natasha drew the line, stepping in and herding the agents from the room. She was more than enough to handle Barton, she hoped.

When he slowly began to come to it, nearly an hour later, she was expecting, and hoping, he'd jump awake as himself. Instead, it was a slow and painful process to watch as he eased into consciousness, the control and rage of the Tesseract still fighting within him. He was out of focus and images and lights blurred through his vision and head, and she could only sit and watch. She waited, tense, as he slowly came to it until finally he started sounding like himself again, composed and whole and as professional as ever, as alert as if he'd just returned from a mission.

When she later witnessed Dr. Selvigg, the scientist in a similar situation as Barton, awake fully comprehensible and well aware nearly immediately after being knocked unconscious, she would pretend that it didn't bother her that while Barton had had to struggle even after the cognitive recalibration, Selvigg had skipped that hangover with only so much as a mild headache.

She would pretend that theories in her head didn't form that either Selvigg was stronger against the temptation of the Tesseract, or Barton's control had been modified harshly to further control him.

* * *

_When we were young _

_I never was repeating _

_The sentiment again and again _

_Oh, something's gotta come my way_

* * *

Natasha stumbles backwards, watching the speck that is Stark spur awake stories below her. She looks back at Selvigg, who is relieved and lets it show as he starts smiling for the first time since she's seen or met him. She reaches to her com as Steve's voice buzzes through, "It's not over yet. One last thing to take care of."

She can hear Stark in the background muttering some incoherent babble, slipping in something about food and she doesn't think she can stomach anything at the moment but she knows to give herself ten minutes and she'll be starving.

From peering over the edge, she knows Bruce is with them, howling like mad at Stark's feet. Thor and the Captain are there, too, lifting Stark up on his feet and heading for the tower. She knows Loki is inside, and he's left as the final puzzle piece to be played.

She stops when the body count doesn't add up.

"Where's Clint?" She hastily remarks, speaking through the com.

There's a silence, and finally Steve breaks it. "Agent Barton? Come in, Barton."

"Oi, Hawkboy?" Stark adds in, unnecessarily.

For a good, final measure, Natasha barks, "Clint?"

Finally there's a buzz and static blends with coughing as Barton joins the conversation.

"Right, Stark's tower, is it?"

Natasha breathes a sigh of relief.

"You would know, you sent him flying here."

She can hear, disturbingly, the blood caked on his teeth crack as he smiles, and it's one of the worst sounds she thinks' she's ever heard yet it's a relief to hear.

"Was aiming for his eye, though. Guess I'll take second best."

"Or you can have another shot," Natasha growls, stepping up to beat the others to the room below her where their enemy is out cold. She ignores the fact Thor might have heard everything, but a part of her wants to challenge him to tell them off. Not after everything they've been through.

"Where are you, Barton? Can you stand? Do you need assistance?"

Steve is answered with a cough that sounds a lot like choking to Natasha and finally Clint manages to gruff out a curt, "I'm a few floors down from my prior position, the building adjacent to the Stark Tower. I can feel my legs alright, but-"

He's cut off and Natasha freezes in her tracks.

"Clint? Are you alright?"

"I'm-"

Steve cuts him off. "Thor is on his way," and as though reading her mind, "Natasha, stay put. We'll meet you up in the tower in a minute. Thor, Barton, meet us there."

* * *

Stark and Steve anticlimactically arrive through the elevator, which ironically works fine and proper despite the state of the tower.

"Jarvis, perform a sweep on the damage of the Tower. Build me up a nice chart, maybe a pie graph for the hell of it. Just some number crunches you can show me later that I'll inevitably blow off and push to the side in favor of something more worth while," Stark motions to the air.

"My _pleasure_, sir."

Natasha strains to keep her foot from tapping, waiting as Steve stalks towards the unconscious God. He stirs slightly, but Natasha already has her Widow Bites charged to the maximum and she's secretly praying she gets the chance to land in a punch before Thor arrives.

She's both disappointed and relieved when Thor, hammer swinging and all, comes thundering down on Stark's patio. Stark jumps, making some comment about property damage that, given the circumstances, they all ignore. Natasha releases her clenched fists the moment Barton stumbles out from Thor's grip, straightening himself onto his own two feet.

Stark is limping, but his suit acts as a cast to prop him up. Steve already is recovering, thanks to his serum, and Thor looks relatively untouched save for dirt and ash. A minute later, Banner joins them as well, though Natasha hardly notices.

Barton, on the other hand, looks like the walking dead. The brief time he spent knocked unconscious thanks to Natasha was not enough to provide the appropriate sleep recovery that he needed, after spending countless hours without rest under Loki's control. His eyes were still ringed in bruises and his arms looked to fair no better. Specs of glass littered his shoulders and Natasha could see the dried blood seeping through his shirt. She strained to get a better look at his back, which was prodded and punctured with more glass, and she knew under that vest was not a pleasant sight.

"Clint-" She starts, but he's already drawing and arrow to his bow and limping towards the stirring God of Mischief.

The others aren't as concerned as Natasha, and gathered around Barton, eyes all fixated on Loki as he crawls upwards along the steps. Thor hangs back, hiding his disappointed scowl. Natasha knows he'll blame himself, she just isn't aware the extent for how long, as he's not a human and she doesn't know how exactly they mourn mistakes on their side of space. Stark looks smug-maybe an inside joke, possibly between himself and Loki, or just a smug sign of retribution. Steve is serious, and Banner's expression mirrors the anger that, as he noted, he constantly bares.

Clint's face is unreadable, to all but Natasha, who lingers in hesitation, back with Thor, picking up on the twitch of energy in his fingers. He's itching to let them slip, to send the arrow point blank from his prep, but he doesn't.

It's that kind of restraint that makes him a better agent than herself, she thinks, because if she was any closer to Loki she swears she'd send a kick to his head, especially after he dryly remarks he'll "take that drink now."

* * *

_Oh, it won't be easy _

_As you reach your final end _

_When our days are spent _

_And I watch you transcend_

* * *

It's been a day and Natasha jolts awake. It's one of those dreams that you feel yourself falling, even with a mattress firmly under you, and she doesn't remember the dream when she wakes up, which she's grateful for, but she still doesn't feel too easy when reality seeps back into her mind. She hasn't heard much from Shield, other than that Loki's departure, along with Thor and the Tesseract, will take place that day, roughly around noon.

She could try to catch more sleep, because her body needs it, but she's wide awake and doubts she'd be able to find any sleep. Not now, not with everything returning.

Her mattress is a makeshift bed, part of the guest room chain that Stark's tower housed, in one of the lower levels of the tower, apart of the few untouched levels, still in tact from the invasion off yesterday. Funny how everything has happened under twenty-four hours since then.

Natasha washes her face quickly and throws on some casual clothes, courtesy of Pepper's over-stay closet. She has her own locker back at base, filled with the few dresses that she actually owns rather than what is provided for missions and marks, and the occasional shirt of Barton's that she stole, or in any case has yet to return. Not that he ever pesters her about it; he has others and if laundry is tight he'll re-wear the one from the previous day.

From the sound of the snoring, she knows Thor is to her left. She makes her way from her room to...well, she doesn't know. It doesn't occur to her where to go, because she isn't exactly knowledgeable on the architectural purpose of Stark's tower, nor does she have any idea where she wants to be at this moment. She isn't hungry, or thirsty. Anxious, maybe, but she doubts there's an adequate training facility (For now) at the tower. So, she decides she wants fresh air.

The roof.

It's not even a surprise that he's already beaten her there. If she had to guess, she might even say he didn't sleep; that he's been perched at Stark's personal landing pad all night long, as though keeping watch and expecting the second wave of Chitauri.

Natasha stepped up the stairs, making her way to Barton and stopping just one step shy of the top, where he sat.

"Barton, you haven't slept properly in-"

"Tasha," He quickly cut her off. He didn't need a medical evaluation. He needed a friend.

Natasha closed the gap, sitting beside his back. She wasn't afraid of heights, but like any decent person it was slightly unsettling to sit at the edge of a platform several stories above the solid concrete. Maybe Barton wasn't as human as everyone thought to remind themselves he was.

"You know what this really, essentially, means, right?" He asks, trying to lighten the mood by cracking a forced smile. Natasha humors him, if nothing else by asking, "What?", though her face is still hardened with concern.

"You don't owe me anymore."

Her eyes flicker for a moment, then settle on his own. She doesn't say anything, because she's trying to think of something witty to remark by, some excuse or other that keeps the game going. She wants to say something, because if she leaves it at that then it's understood that everything they've built upon has just now dissolved, like a neutral pact of separation. She doesn't want separation, or for any of this to end, so she forgets all about trying to joke around because this is serious and because honesty is the best policy.

"You're still my partner."

And being a partner means putting your partner first. Always. Regardless if there's a debt, or a mission, or anything like that. It's a command, not even a request or option; he is her partner, and he can't leave her now.

In a way, it's an answer to whatever self-loathing and pitying he's been moping around, doing for the past eight plus hours. Agents and civilians and soldiers are to be mourned and remembered, but there's also a degree of selfishness that must be taken in that you are alive and must live with that fact. And he isn't allowed to cop out, or to quit or resign or loathe himself because all of those things divert his eyes from focus and if he isn't focused then he cannot watch his partner's back. Because he's still her partner.

"The send off is at noon," She breaks in, though he already knows. He nods. It's a couple of hours away. He doesn't move because he's as lost and out of place at this tower as Natasha is. There's no where to go, just to wait for the others and then see to it that Loki is returned to where he never should have left from.

"Did you get any sleep?" Natasha finally asks. Clint finally breaks into a smile, because she's sounding more and more like a mother he never knew, barking orders and commands at him, laced with concern that she isn't bothering to hide. He inhales sharply, painfully, as though to answer her and turns around to retreat back inside.

"Hungry?"

* * *

"The council wants to see you."

She rose to stand beside him, but Fury shook his head.

"Not you, Romanov. Just Barton."

She wouldn't admit it, but a bit of fear jumped inside of her. Because she had seen this coming but had refused to accept it. And because she knew no matter what she said or pleaded, Clint was going to ignore her because he was that righteous kind and she'd never been able to accept that about him.

Still, she tried to argue nonetheless.

"Director Fury, you can't let them punish Agent Barton. It wasn't his fault, Loki-"

"-The Council is well aware of the circumstances, agent Romanov," Fury recited, though she could tell not all the agitation in his voice was reserved for her, "However, regardless of that fact, they still wish to see Agent Barton."

And she could tell that Fury had fought just as hard as she would've to the Council, but it had meant not a damn thing, just like it did now.

"Director Fury-" She tried again.

"Natasha."

It was Clint who silenced her, his voice quiet and his eyes focused, looking directly past Fury, out the door towards the hallway.

She waited for him to spew some speech on duty and punishment and she bit the inside of her cheek, preparing for the lecture. But, it never came. Instead, he turned his eyes to face her, a thin smile pursing on his lips, meekly trying to hide the resentment in his eyes as he spoke softly,

"It's alright."

Fury said nothing, but she could tell this didn't sit well with him, either.

"Besides," Clint continued, the smile vanishing and his eyes returning back to just past Fury, his face hardening again after a moment of vulnerability, of tenderness. "I deliberately went against orders. I hijacked a Quinjet and took part in the unofficial aiding of the unrecognized Avenger's Initiative. Not to mention I damaged said Quinjet and the Helicarrier as well."

He didn't add that he had to account for the lives he'd also, albeit unwillingly, taken, but Natasha knew he was biting back that comment just for her. He nodded at Fury and walked past the man, inevitably towards his doom. Natasha didn't move, but she had half a mind to track down the Council and speak to them in person herself.

* * *

It was well over an hour before Clint finally exited the briefing room. If he looked drained and tired before, he now looked spent and exhausted. He gave her a weak smile as he trudged from the room, and she shot up, hesitating from reaching out and catching him as he looked like he'd fall over any minute.

"What'd they say?" She demands, not bothering to conceal her fear or beat around the inevitable. She braces herself to hear something, anything but termination. If he asks her to, she thinks, she'd go rogue for him. Just run away and leave the operation. There's no where they could hide that Shield wouldn't find them but they're damn good and they could keep on the run. If anyone could get away with running for the rest of their lives, it's these two.

The loyalty she has to her partner that even sparks such a suggestion in her mind scares her, because it far surpasses the loyalty she has for Shield, and Shield comes before her own life.

"Probation, until further notice."

She releases her breadth, a stream of air as her shoulders relax and the tension eases up-barely.

"The damage repairs..?"

"-Will cut into my paycheck for a while," he jokes, smiling feebly at her. It's forced and it's not something he should be joking about but the fact that he tried is enough for her.

"How were they?"

He rolls his eyes, humored.

"Not too pleased, to say the least, with me. I guess it doesn't help that the Director seems to be out of their favor at the moment, too."

Natasha nods once. What with the deliberate resistance to the missile launch on Manhattan and possibly a few choice words of attitude directed towards the Council, she isn't surprised that the frustration the Council has for Fury would trickle down in a successive order to the unfortunate agents. That, and Fury taking Barton's side in a fit of further defiance probably did less good for his case than it should have.

"I'm on a temporary leave," Barton finally sighs out. Natasha feels the boil of anger in her own stomach, and she's already mid-turning in motion to track down Fury when Barton catches her, "You, too."

She raises a brow.

"As my partner, you also will be under mild observation and questioning concerning my defection." She's surprised when he winks at her. "You also took part in the aid and assistance of the unapproved hijacking of a Quinjet and engaging in the enemy as not approved by the Council officially."

Natasha smirked, because under any other circumstance, Clint would have fought tooth and nail until the Council relented their joint punishment on himself and Natasha. Because he would never accept that she should be reprimanded for something he blamed solely on himself, whether she felt the same or not.

Because he'd called her his partner, and that was a promise more than a fact and was not debatable.

"So, if we're on probation...where do we go?"

Barton pretends to think for a moment before a genuine smile replaces his contemplative expression.

"Think Stark misses us?"

"I think he owes me the most expensive bottle of vodka the market can offer." And then some. She did sort of save the world, and him, and his stupid tower.

Though in that small part of her that she allows herself to be selfish, she really only cares that she saved Barton.

* * *

**A/N: **Random Facts~ I have a thing about starting these stories with dialogue, and ending them with a scene between just Natasha and Clint. Not sure if I'l break that tradition by the end of this :p I also liked trying to incorporate Clint's presence in Iron Man 2, cause as clsoe as they were in the Avengers, there had to be something hidden in Iron Man 2 ;)

I hate trying to fabricate too much of a back story, so apologies if that flashback was weak :/ To me, this story rotates between shifting towards romantic or platonic partnership, which hopefully you all will appreciate in whether you ship these two romantically (I do) or just on a deep bond (I also do :p).

I've never written Loki before, he was really hard, so sorry if he doesn't come across properly-I lvoe Loki, I just can't write him too well :(

Also, I couldn't remember for the life of me if it's or the Hulk who stands over Loki in that end scene when they corner him; so I tried to leave it vague enoguh that if you remembered properly, you could fill it in :p

The end is, as always, a little weak to me :P I think after eleven chapters, I'll fix that eventually :p ;) Hope you enjoyed this one shot!


	5. Light Up

So~ Again, to all reviewers and alerts and favers-You people are amazing and really inspiring! This chapter follows 'Light Up' by Sucre off her album 'A Minor Bird'~

So~ Another abusing poor Clint chapter, told from Natasha's POV (I'm one note ;3) You mgiht be able to tell, but this originally was like three different concept chapters that I crammed and joined into one. Originally, for this song I wanted it light and romantic. Then, I also wanted the inevitable death fic because in a collection of oneshots, there's always the depressing death fic one and I really wanted to rgiht one. I don't know how that concept fell to be paired with 'Light Up', but it did :p

There's a lot of flippnig between flashbacks and the main plot line, what little there is, so sorry if that confuses you...I'll go ahead and say that the last snidbit (sort of...you'll see) is a flashback, if you couldn't guess. Does that help..?

Also, Steve kind of guest stars as the secondary (third?) character to this story, because the others have Stark or Banner and I wanted to write more with Steve :p Hope you enjoy this~!

* * *

_Light up _

_Carry me home _

_You're so weak _

_But I want you to know _

_You light up the world for me _

_Oh, you light up the world for me_

* * *

"Where are you?"

Clint coughed, sharply inhaling through the com before muttering, "Around...you know."

Natasha frowned.

"Clint, where the hell are you? Get to the rendezvous point, our ride is nearly here!"

"Let me guess...It'll leave without me if I'm not there?"

Natasha gritted her teeth.

"Quit joking around, Clint!" There was a pause. "Where's your location? I'm coming to get you."

"Natasha, don't."

"Quit babbling Barton and give me your location."

"Tasha-"

"We don't have time for this, Barton! Are you still at your position?"

"...No."

Natasha cursed in Russian.

"Where are you?" She pleaded.

Clint said nothing for a moment, before finally his voice cracked through the link, "Remember Moscow?"

Natasha blinked, "Of course I do. It was a stealth mission, you-"

"Remember Montreal?"

Natasha scoffed, "An infiltration mission. We posed as a couple-"

"And Dominica?"

Not one of her prouder missions. "Yes," was all she answered. "Clint, I don't-"

"Remember Lisbon?"

Natasha thought momentarily.

"We never went to Lis-"

"No, but we should have. It's lovely, I've seen pictures."

Natasha turned her head towards the skies, scanning for sight of the approaching Quinjet. It'd be here any moment, they needed to leave.

"Barton, where is your position-"

"I've never been to Wales," He mused, more to himself than to Natasha. She sighed, racking her brain for what possible excuse Barton could have for delaying his arrival to meet with her as well as taking this trip through memory lane. It was unnerving and she'd probably hit him for it once they were back on base.

"Barton-"

"Romanov," he warned.

"...Clint."

"Nat."

"...What's wrong?"

Without saying a word, he answered her hidden question that something was, indeed, wrong in the first place.

"Clint, hold still, I'm coming to your position."

"Natasha, don't-"

"Don't what, Clint? You won't tell me what's wrong, you're not here! Either show up in the next five seconds or I'm coming in after you-"

"You can't."

"Why not?"

There was a long break of silence before Clint came back on.

"Hey, Nat?"

"Clint, if you don't answer me-"

"I talked to Steve."

"What?"

The distant chops of the blades came into hearing and Natasha saw from the darkness as the Quinjet appeared before her, it's shields disarmed as the hanger dropped. It approached with remarkable speed, enough to throw her off as she watched, dumbstruck, as it approached. She could just make out the blurred image of red and blue standing at the hanger's edge.

"Barton, where are you-"

"Nat, please."

"Clint, this isn't a joke, get up here now! The Quinjet's-"

"I know."

Natasha felt her breadth tighten a bit, her heart jumping as she watched Steve vault himself from the hanger.

"...Clint."

He didn't respond.

"You're not going to make it to the Quinjet, are you?"

Steve's form was at a full sprint the moment he touched down, making his way towards Natasha, who stood rooted to the concrete of the building's roof.

"You should go see Lisbon, Natasha. I'm telling you, it's gorgeous. I know Portuguese isn't your strongest-"

"Clint," Natasha blinked away the irritation in her eyes-tears from lack of blinking, not of fear of panic or sheer terror that Barton wasn't going to make it. "I'm coming in to get you," She turned on her heels, but already Steve was in front of her, his hand gripping her wrist. She could have easily twisted and wrestled out of the grip, but Barton's words caught her off guard.

"No, you're not, Natasha."

A swift hit to the back of the head cut Natasha's cry short, and in one swoop she was slung over the shoulders of a reluctant and sickly feeling Steve.

* * *

He's proposed to her three times, and she said yes each time.

* * *

The first time, they're in London. It's a crowded day, just under Big Ben and overlooking the Channel from the railing on the bridge. They have a tip off that an exchange between two marks whom Shield has had run ins with before will occur at this time and place.

They're not the only two agents in the field at the moment; Briggs is seated next to Anders, and Lloyd (He's one of those peculiar people with a first-name last-name) is posed at a telephone service across the street, pretending to make a call when he's really just using it as an excuse to stare absently out into the crowd.

Natasha is wearing whatever thrifty dress her pocket change could buy, because her and Barton haven't even made it back to base from their previous mission before this one was sprung on them mid-return. They had already been in Europe at the time and Shield needed more eyes, so in half an hour they went from flying over the Pacific to turning around to land in London. Her camera was disposable and had no film but she pretended to use it, clicking at empty pictures and hiding her eyes behind the lens.

Barton looked casual in his clothes, far more color than Natasha was used to seeing. He had layers of flannel and plaid, varying in size to fit him properly. Natasha let her free hand fall to her necklace, a string of fake pearls that finished the dress off nicely and somehow salvaged it.

Barton twisted at the ring on his thumb-a faux school ring that had gone for his earlier cover when he'd pretended to have been an alumni of their target's affiliated college. There was a deep sapphire set in it, with some fake year inscribed on the side and an eagle on the other.

"Any sign of our men down there?" Came Fury's voice through their ears. Natasha pretended to adjust a strand of loose hair, instead fumbling to push the earpiece.

"It's really cloudy. I hope it doesn't rain," She mused, staring forebodingly at the clouds. Weather was coded for no sign.

"I don't think it'll spoil our day, darling," Barton quickly remarked. Natasha nonchalantly stared towards the direction Barton was watching. Familiarity coded for a sighting.

"You're always so positive, dear," Natasha affirmed, catching sight of one half their target. Fury's voice could be heard through the com, connecting to Biggs and Anders and Lloyd, informing them to get a visual on what Barton and Romanov spotted.

Natasha dropped her camera, a pure accident, but the clang caught the attention of the few standing by. She dared to send a look towards their target, who had frozen. _Shit, _she thought. He must be jittery, paranoid, because he looked about ready to bolt, to jeopardize his own exchange and their chance of catching him. Natasha shot Barton a warning glance, but he already had dropped beside her to retrieve the camera, trying to play it off like the doting partner he was posed to be.

"Clint," Natasha hissed, warning. "The target is about to bolt. What do you suggest we do?" She was speaking as much to Fury as she was Barton. They needed to act quick, Anders was about ready to break into a sprint after their guy. Even if they catch him, his partner was somewhere nearby and would slip away no doubt. They needed to catch both of them..

"I suggest you say yes." Barton muttered back.

Before Natasha could question him, Barton had set the camera down, not having risen to take a stand beside Natasha, instead twisting his ring from his thumb, hiding the gem and letterings as his large fingers cupped it so only a small gold band was visible.

Several onlookers pause to gasp and grin at the duo, darting between looking at the dumbfounded, goofy grin on Barton's face and the pure shock, which most certainly was not an act, on Natasha's.

"B-babe..." She stutters, trying to stay in character but half her head fearful, fluttering with 'what if he's already dropped his'. He can't be serious.

"Barton, Romanov, what the hell is going on?"

"I know the old man won't stand for it," Barton grins, speaking loudly so the onlookers can hear, and it occurs to her he's putting on a show.

That 'old man' is currently screaming in both of their ears, demanding to know what is compromising the mission.

Barton dares to spare one glance past Natasha at the target, who seems satisfied enough that this suspicious couple is just another romantic tourist duo trying to make the most of their vacation, and that he's simply over thinking and on edge because of this public meeting. Barton also looks to Anders, to make sure he's tailing the target but not approaching him. Barton gets away with these flickering glances because everyone's eyes are on Natasha, and she's giving them a performance for the ages, with her audible gasp and brightened eyes.

Behind those fake tears, he knows she wants to kill him for this little stunt.

Natasha allows herself to quiver a little, to add to the performance and she hears the cooing from the crowd and knows she's feeding them just what they want.

"But I can't see myself with anyone but you," He delivers, and it's gold and the ladies around them swoon at the romanticism.

"So, will you...marry me-"

"-Yes!" She cuts him off, because this is ridiculous and painful to watch. She jumps around his neck, hugging him and only he feels her fingernails dig into his neck and skin.

Through their earpiece, they hear Briggs' voice carry over, demanding their apprehended targets to freeze. The crowd disperses as Barton pulls Natasha in, not quite selling it with a kiss but pressing his forehead against hers to give the impression of intimacy. She hears Anders grunt, giving chase, and a gun shot.

* * *

When the duo finally make a clean escape from the prying eyes of blessing Brits, they back peddle to Briggs and Anders' location. Both targets are out cold and Lloyd has a small gun wound in his shoulder, but otherwise is fine and has applied pressure.

He looks pale and is breathing hard, but Natasha knows he's fine because he has enough wit in him to snidely remark,

"So, have you two set a date?"

Natasha punches Barton in the head and they silently agree that they're never allowed to bring this up again.

* * *

_When I'm down you change me like the route _

_You've found me, _

_You tell me over tea _

_You light the world for me _

_You light up the world for me_

* * *

"My friend was a sniper."

Steve felt stupid the moment he said those words. Because Barton and Bucky were two completely different people-they weren't in comparison to one another.

Bucky was cocky and gregarious and followed his own beliefs and morals. He made calls and judgments blindly solely by faith and he was a charming, social guy. He had a good shot but he hated not being in the frontlines. Because at heart he was as desperate to fight alongside his brothers of arms as Steve had been. He just was a little more understanding of reality than Steve might have admitted to being.

Barton wasn't a sociable person. He was easy to get along with, but not necessarily trust. Bucky had such an approachable air to him that you felt drawn towards him. You felt comfortable around him. Barton was unnerving to stand by. But, you felt safe by Barton. Like he honestly had your back. He was your second pair of eyes.

Barton could easily be in the frontlines-he was adaptable. He just was more necessary as the patient, lone sniper. But his talents didn't end with a good shot. Neither had Bucky's. Barton was every bit as sensible as Bucky had been, too. He knew when to withdraw, and he knew when it wasn't the time to play hero.

It wasn't merely just the comparison between these two men that made the Captain's words foolish. It was the opening of the Pandora's box that was the memories of Bucky. Of his men, of everyone left seventy years in the past. He was warned against dwelling on those memories but not a minute went by that he didn't. He hardly voiced anything about it, but what drove him to say something now, in the midst of silence, and to Barton of all people...

Maybe it was just a part of Barton's character, to surface these memories and regrets.

Despite the regret, Steve had nonetheless spoken his thought out loud, and no amount of back tracking could save him.

"I mean, he wasn't as good a shot as you-well, no, he was a damn good shot. I-I, actually, I can't say who was better, but then again-"

Barton said nothing, pausing mid motion in his descent from the den to the hall, watching Steve through a quirked eyebrow. Finally, Steve sighed, giving up. Barton wasn't going to acknowledge him anyway, so it didn't matter if his words made sense or not. Hell, it didn't matter what he said.

So, since Barton wasn't moving, and it didn't matter, Steve continued.

"His name was Bucky. Well, it wasn't Bucky-I called him that. We'd grown up together...been around each other since..."

Steve tried to count the years in his head but dates and ages didn't make sense to him anymore so he gave up.

"He was like my older brother. Always looking out for me. I sure knew how to pick fights...and he'd always pull me out of them. Always had my back-"

"He was a sniper."

Steve blinked, snapping his eyes to focus on Barton who, other than a slightly jarred mouth, hadn't moved.

"What? I mean, how do you know-"

"A sniper always has his partner's back. His team. He's their eyes and ears, he has to cover them. When they get into a situation, in over their heads, it's the sniper's job to clear the path for them. They watch your backs for you...and your fronts, and the sides-everything. It's what we do." Barton shrugged slightly, and that was it. He took his leave, with Steve still stunned silently on the couch, bewildered in that that was probably the most Steve had heard Barton say outside of a mission and Natasha's presence.

* * *

This conversation, as one sided as it appeared at the time, flashed back into his head the moment Steve caught sight of Natasha. Barton's link weakly broke through the controls, "Captain."

"Barton? Where are you, I have a visual on Romanov but not-"

"I'm not making this trip round, sir."

Steve paused.

"Barton, where are you-"

"Get Natasha out of here."

"Barton, give me your coordinates, we'll send a response team-"

"Steve."

Rogers blinked, looking between the pilot, who looked equally disturbed and silent, and the figure of Natasha, who was slowly blurring into focus as the Quinjet lowered. Steve turned away from the controls, tweaking his earpiece as the hanger landing dropped.

"Barton, don't do this-"

"A sniper's job is to watch his team, his partners. He is their eyes and ears. He clears a path for them. I am asking you to be Natasha's path."

"Barton, hang on a second, we can find you, get you both out of there-"

"Knock Natasha out if you have to. She won't see it, but I do."

"Barton-"

"I missed the bus, Captain." Steve could hear Barton's mouth snarling a smile, "I'll catch the next available one."

"Barton, if you don't get yourself out of there-"

"Get Natasha out for me. Worry about that-"

"Damn it, Clint! I've already lost enough friends, I don't need to add you to the list-!"

"I'm touched, Captain," Barton strained to joke, but his voice faltered and there clearly was emotion behind the forced jest.

If sentimentality wouldn't work, perhaps orders would.

"You're supposed to keep your eyes on this team. Whose going to watch us, Barton? If you're gone, who will be our eyes and ears? Barton, get up here n-"

"I had an older brother, sir."

Steve shook his head. "What? Barton, why are you telling me thi-"

"He passed a long time ago, too. I couldn't do anything to save him. His name was Barney."

Steve blinked, watching as Natasha frantically shook her head. Judging from the pauses, Steve guessed Clint was switching between the two com links to address himself and Natasha. If he imagined their conversation was sour, he could only judge that Natasha was having no fairer luck in convincing Barton away from his intended fate.

"We weren't that close, me and you, Captain. But you reminded me a lot of Barney. You never said it out right, but I think I reminded you of Bucky."

Steve smiled, a bitter twist of the corners of his mouth.

"You and Bucky were nothing alike."

_They had so much in common._

How they knew when and why to never play the hero, because that was reckless and insensible and those kinds of actions should be left up to brash people like Rogers and Stark.

And how the one time they finally did act the hero, it killed them. _Like they always knew it would._

Because they were human, nothing special. _No serum, no suit._

"Barton...Natasha isn't going to like this."

"...I know," Barton breathed. His voice was shaky and he sounded winded, like it was such a strain just to talk. Steve could only begin to imagine what kind of state Barton was in then.

"Just convince her that I'm right."

"How?"

"Cognitive recalibration."

"...You want me to hit her?" Steve chuckled, dryly.

"I want you to watch out for her."

The laughter died, just as Natasha came into view. Her eyes were already swelling red. Shit.

"You're the eyes and ears of the team, now, Captain. Don't let them down. They look up to you."

* * *

He clicks back to Natasha's frequency, but he only gets static. Cap must have reached her by now. Barton closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, sighing in relief as another gurgle of blood spouts from his punctured lung, spilling over his vest and arm.

He tries to shift, maybe get comfortable before the inevitable blast, but being impaled is hard to work around, and he winces and gives up on that. He tries to force his eyes open, but he's damn tired and it's too painful to even breathe at this point.

He tries a final sigh, maybe his final breadth, and he hopes to a God he hardly ever called upon that Steve got Natasha out alright without too much of a fight.

Barton lets his eyes close and wonders if he'll even make it through the wait for the explosives to go off.

* * *

The second time he proposes to her, he's drunk and Steve witnesses it all.

* * *

To Stark's disgust and dismay, none of the Avengers, his makeshift permanent guests at the tower, are as adamant about drinking as he is. Not that he wasn't too thrilled about the prospect of having these live-in tenants who very well could be a freak show on their own, but their had been a sliver of hope yet when he'd thought they'd be, if nothing else, entertaining drunk.

It wasn't that they all out right refused alcohol-though some did. The problem was they all seemed as immune to becoming shit-face wasted that by the time any of them showed signs of so much as a tingling effect, Stark was already out of it.

His biggest hope had been the largest disappointment. Steve Rogers, the wholesome Captain America; Stark made it his personal goal to get this guy trashed. If nothing else, it'd be hilarious.

Seven drinks in and a half conscious Stark later, Rogers had the mind to casually announce the serum didn't allow him to get drunk. It had slipped his mind at the time, he mentioned. Stark could have killed him. Instead, he vomited at the street corner.

Banner would have been his next victim, except his insistence that while he couldn't hold his liquor, 'the other guy' very well could. It had taken quite a successful day in the lab to boost Banner's confidence enough to get him to take a shot or five.

Stark learned his lesson in tempting the doctor with alcohol after that...well, after the 'other guy' made an appearance and the bar banned the duo. Forever.

Stark doesn't even remember the night with Thor, only the next morning where the God was brimming as brightly and godly as ever, while Stark had a hangover headache that could have split skulls.

Thor's booming voice didn't help.

Stark approached Natasha once about drinking, and that was the last time.

So his final hope on a decent drinking buddy fell to Barton.

To Stark's surprise, he was approachable enough about the subject. He'd just gotten out of training, a spar with Natasha that to anyone other than them looked like a death match with no clear winner. Stark had insisted he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Alright."

Barton shrugged, through a sweatshirt over himself and agreed to meet Tony out front in ten.

* * *

So roughly thirty minutes later, Stark was sitting at a bar stool, eyeing the agent peculiarly as he sipped at a beer.

"You want to ask me something, Stark?"

Stark flinched but didn't avert his eyes.

"Just...wondering. You don't, I don't know, have some sort of...immunity to alcohol in you, do you? Like, some odd tests run through Shield's recruit days, to make you impervious to alcohol?"

Clint shrugged, but smiled. "Nope."

What he did have was one hell of a tolerance for alcohol. Stark later would learn that while, no, Shield did not inject some immunity to the effects of alcohol into their agents, they did somehow rig them up to last far longer than the average man. Natasha would later explain that this was all apart of their training to keep a clear head and blend in. How many missions called for agents to go undercover with drug lords and corrupt bureaucrats who showered in champagne and such? Agents had to keep their heads and tongues about them-trained not to slip up after so many drinks, yet never draw suspicion as to why they didn't drink. Stark would learn that had Clint wanted to, he easily could have acted drunk after three glasses and Stark would have never been the wiser.

But Barton didn't try to trick Stark, and so after more glasses than even Stark thought was healthy, Barton still appeared as fine and unfazed as ever.

Stark also learned that Barton didn't drink often, outside of missions mostly, because it had an effect on the muscles and the mind that he, being as top-shape as he was, couldn't afford. Why this night in particular was an exception, Stark would never know. Rogers, however, had the luck to find out.

Stark almost drowned himself in his own shots, loosing a grip on his final hope, when he noticed the slight slip up of Barton. Ever so woozy, Barton's fingers fumbled and dropped a quarter he'd been flipping. He swayed a bit to reach it, and it was then that hope reignited itself.

"Another round! On me!" Stark cheered, pushing his own drink aside. Barton smiled and took the offered drink, unsuspecting of Stark's intentions.

* * *

"A purple little little lady would be perfect for a dirty old and useless clown-"

Barton stumbled, gripping Stark's shoulder hard enough for the other man to wince under it.

Natasha was already waiting at the elevator's entrance, just as the door swung open and Barton slumped forward. She caught him instantly.

"What-?"

"I know you since you were twenty-I was twenty?" He slurred, smiling and singing as Stark shrugged Barton onto Natasha, who was glaring at him from under Barton's arms.

"What the hell, Stark..?"

"I-we went out for a few drinks-"

"A few? He's sloshed!"

Stark shrugged. It was at this moment that Steve walked in, roused by the noise coming from in the hall outside his own room, witnessing a staggered Barton gripping between Stark and Natasha.

"He can't hold his liquor, maybe..?"

"Stark!"

"Alright, maybe we had more than a few-he had more than a few."

"This is your fault."

"What? My-? How can you blame me-"

"I ja kljanus obossav dva paltza- chto ty!"

Stark double backed to look at Barton, "Is that Russian? What is that..?"

"Stark, help me with him!" Natasha snapped. Barton tried to stumble to his feet, but he was so far gone it was impossible for him to stand.

"Start wearing purple, wearing purple for me now-!"

Stark smiled.

"It's a catchy song."

"Shut up, Stark."

* * *

Steve didn't need to announce his presence, as Natasha had already eyed him. With a quick nod, she motioned for Steve to switch with Tony, relieving him from carrying Barton, who had continued to ramble on the song, shouting about the color purple, as much as Steve could determine.

"Stark, get some water. He'll need it to help flush all the alcohol from his system."

"It won't stop the hangover." That was inevitable.

"It'll help.

Maybe Stark was just too tired to argue, because he left without even dropping a final trademark quip. Steve shortened his steps to match Natasha's and tried to lean the stupor man more against his side rather than Natasha's. Not that she wasn't strong enough to hold Barton up, it was simply courtesy.

This shift in weight did make it easier for Natasha to fumble Barton's door open, to which she was grateful of Steve for. In a few short steps, the trio had reached Barton's bed and collapsed him on the mattress. Steve had unceremoniously dropped Barton, while Natasha had lowered him onto the bed, still gripping his waist in a half-hug of sorts.

"Tasha," Barton slurred, and it occurred to Steve Barton might not even be aware he was in the room at the moment.

"No more drinking with Stark, you got that?"

Steve watched the exchange between the two. Barton looked sober-fine, other than the smallest of grins and glazed-over eyes. He watched Natasha a moment, and Steve truly did wonder if it was all an act. If Barton was as aware and sober as himself.

"It's his birthday today," he finally muttered, a half whisper that Steve barely caught. Natasha hesitated, her voice also lowering as she mumbled back a curt, "I know."

Steve didn't know who they were talking about, but if he took a guess now he'd say it was Barney. At the time, he could only watch the intimacy between the two agents as they simply leaned on one another, until finally Barton's somber face broke into a wide grin,

"Let's get married, Tasha!"

And just like that, Tasha hesitation was gone. She was back to fumbling around the sheets and Barton, pulling off his shoes and setting him further up the mattress, tucking him in. She simply nodded, only half listening to Barton, mouthing off like she's heard this all before; like it's routine.

"Alright, Clint. Yes, sure."

Steve just stared, dumbstruck. A second later, Barton was snoring, and Stark appeared at the doorway, glass in hand.

"What'd I miss?"

* * *

_Light up, _

_Carry me home _

_Cause your eyes are all I want to know _

_You Light the world for me _

_Oh, you light up the world for me _

* * *

Before a mission, even as far back as the first one Natasha ever took with Barton, she remembered, she could always recall him slipping away briefly before they departed for their quest. No matter how simple and short or long or risky the mission was, he always took a quick detour to his chambers. He always had been packed and prepared, hours prior, and she could never guess as to what he did.

It was two years into her parole as an Agent of Shield that she finally (Really, what took her so long?) decided to catch him in the act. At first she'd dismissed it as some petty guy thing. Something unnecessary or vile. Or maybe a ritual-a religious prayer or shrine. But she'd been in his room before-no such shrine existed. Even more surprising, when she finally followed him, she found he didn't lead off into his own quarters.

Instead, he slipped into an empty room, no larger than a closet. She tried to peek in on him the first time, but he was quick and she caught nothing. Several times after, she couldn't hear nor see into the room. He covered his tracks. It was always a different room, a different setting.

She knew he was on to her stalking him after half a year because he would try to loose her in the halls, throughout the base. He never did, and a part of her suspected he wasn't hardly trying to. It was a game to him, having her trail him. Maybe it was a form of extended exercise, like an extra bit of training for her, though it wasn't a challenge.

She finally caught a glimpse in the room one fateful night, just after a tedious assignment with a high risk. He wasn't nearly as cautious and she'd easily slipped in a view of the setting. The lights were off, and he sat before a screen. She noted the red light, and realized he was recording.

He was video taping himself.

She caught sight of him leaving, slipping a disk into his pocket. She made it her own personal challenge, her mission, to get a hold of that disk-to see what the contents were. What was his secret?

She never once asked him about it. That broke the game, ruined the challenge.

She wanted to see that disk so damn bad!

* * *

Natasha got her wish three weeks after the fateful mission in which Steve had pulled her from. She hadn't sulked a moment yet, not in the normal sense. She was as cold and hardened as ever, and her teammates feared that about her. That she could show such little emotion after his fall.

Then the disk came.

It came in an envelope, handed to her personally by Fury himself. He remarked that it should have been Coulson delivering this to her.

She said it should have been Barton himself.

She went three days without even so much as opening the envelope. The others were curious as to what was inside, but she knew it was the disk. She tore the envelope open, turning the disk in her hands and flipping it between her fingers.

She went a week before she finally snapped the disk into the computer.

Immediately, Barton's face jumped to the screen.

"Natasha," He jumped in. He looked rushed-already dressed for the mission, he looked hardly any different than the last time she'd seen him. Except his face had more color and he still looked fresh and clean of gunpowder and debris.

"I..." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, calculating, "don't know...how many takes I've done of this tape. I've made this tape at least a hundred times. Once before every mission I've ever been on, since meeting you-"

_438._

"-And...if you're seeing this one, finally, then...you know why." She chuckled, but it caught in her throat and came out as a cough.

"You and I both know the risks, so don't say anything. I know you're probably outside the door, or hiding in the rafters in the hall-you've been trying to get a peek on me since at least six years ago-"

_Seven._

"-but...I think I still got you beat, seeing as you haven't hit me yet for doing something so stupid," he motioned towards the screen, the camera. "So...I guess I win, eh?"

Natasha blinked, her vision blurring and Clint's face fading out of focus.

"...I really didn't want you to see this, Tasha," He sighed. "Hopefully you aren't..."

_She is._

"Don't get too down about me, alright?" He chuckled, and the knot in Natasha's throat tightened. "What am I saying? You're the professional one, here. You were the better agent, you know? If you'd have asked me, I'd admitted that to your face, but...you never asked, so here's me answering you," He nodded, smiling reassuringly at Natasha through the screen. Like he knew what he was talking about.

"I'm full of surprises, aren't I?" She openly laughed at this. Yes, you are, you bastard.

"Here's another one," he winked.

"I love yo-"

She hit eject, the tape quickly cutting off as she snatched the disk up from the machine.

She wouldn't listen, she wouldn't hear it. Those words were the words someone says when they're about to die. When all hope is gone and they want to leave this world in peace.

She would be damned if she gave up hope now, and she was going to kill Barton if he thought he was 'at peace', leaving her the way that he did.

* * *

They had hardly any possessions to their name. They had a locker, and the contents of that locker were the contents, the puzzle pieces, of their lives. Coulson had a few shirts, some childhood memorabilia; Captain America trading cards, a figure or two. Some old photos. His preferred pistol and some unfiled reports or paperwork that he'd 'get around to'.

He never did.

Natasha had nothing from her childhood, and even less from her Russian heritage. What she did have was a few pieces of jewelry to her name that Clint had bought her on a whim at one mission or another. Something that caught his eye once, after he remarked she had nothing personal. Shield provided all the necessities for her disguises-the dresses and jewelry. It was all rented and designed for her character, not her. Clint's pieces tended to be tacky or hand crafted, therefore flimsy and frail. They were her favorites.

She had her collection of fake IDs-only her favorites. She never noticed the pattern at first, not until half a year ago, that all the marital statuses of her ID collection were 'married'. Barton had held onto the matching IDs. The ones that also mirrored 'married'.

There was one ring that was hers that she insisted on wearing during those occasional covers that she was married to Barton, if only in character. It was a ring he'd bought her, down in an African country, where borders of states and tribes mingled. She wore the ring on her ring finger every time, and would fidget with it occasionally. It was the piece that reminded her that underneath the borrowed dress and make up and wigs and contacts and behind that fake ID, that she was Natasha Romanov.

Barton's locker was clean save for his bow and quiver, a hand gun, his uniform, and a single photograph. It was a torn and worn thing that she'd seen him looking at frequently but never caught a glimpse of. She assumed it was of perhaps his childhood, judging by how weathered it looked. She asked once, "What's that photo of?"

He smiled and retorted, "My family."

She knew better than anyone of his past. The brother, the circus, the abusive parents. She knew him as well inside and out as he did her. She never took him for a nostalgic type. He never cared about his mother or father. It had to be of Barney, she decided upon.

It was a stretch, but maybe the photo was from his days at the circus. Maybe that was enough of a family he'd ever known that he'd still look to it as such.

It was after his disappearance, when she cleared through his locker, that she came across the photo.

It was of her.

"You bastard."

She'd later learn it was the very photo from her original profile. The original portfolio, the folder of the mission presented to Agent Clint Barton to assassinate Natasha Romanov, aka the Black Widow. The mission, and file, had been terminated. But he'd kept the photo.

"You bastard..."

* * *

_This night I swear would change you but I don't care _

_And if the one in the sky would take you then I would cry _

_I would cry _

* * *

When Natasha came bounding up to the others, remarking that she wanted to take a trip to Lisbon, no one said anything. At first. Steve glanced about the room, knowing what each one of them was thinking.

Was this alright?

Her partner, her friend, on so many emotional levels her soul mate, was pronounced dead just two months prior. Tony couldn't count the times he'd suggested she take a vacation on his fingers, so it was no surprise (That, and it was Tony in the first place) that he was the first to speak up, a congratulations of sorts and insistence that they leave immediately; New York was getting to cold for him anyway.

Wait, _they_?

After perhaps the longest plane ride of Steve's life (Not considering how long his crash landing had seemed to play out, at least in his memory), the entire team touched down in Lisbon soil. Banner was stiff, Stark had lost no energy, Pepper was irritated and Rogers was quiet. He said nothing, but kept his eyes on Natasha, who was just as quiet.

But if she was feeling any bit of sorrow or apprehension or anything, it didn't show.

"Let's check in!" She beamed, and that was the most disappointing part about it.

* * *

Steve cornered her that night, outside their respective rooms on the terrace of the rented rooms which Tony had bought up, giving them utter privacy in a rather luxurious branch along the beach front strip. The climate was cool enough, the air fresh and carrying scents of foreign spices and foods from neighboring restaurants.

"He wanted to come here," Natasha finally mumbled, a whisper that Steve caught. He said nothing because he wasn't supposed to. She was talking to air, now.

"He suggested we come here...I almost feel like he's been waiting here. Like when the Quinjet took off, he took off on his own to beat me here. When he said we should have gone here...It was like he was trying to hint that this was where he'd be."

Her head tilted a bit and Steve realized, he always knew, that she was talking to him. He didn't ask when Barton had mentioned this, had suggested Portugal of all places, because he knew exactly when he'd done so.

"And I feel like I'm supposed to turn around and he'll be standing there. A-and he'll ask what took me so long?"

Natasha whipped her head around, her eyes brimming lightly with tears that refused to fall but her face cracked into a smile that hesitated before dropping. She turned around expecting to see Barton.

Steve stood in his place.

She didn't say anything else, until finally Steve smirked, snorting to himself.

"You know that wouldn't happen."

_Barton isn't coming back._

"He sees better from a distance."

_He's unreachable, wherever he is._

"He's watching you from a distance right now."

_He's still watching over you. He's got your back._

"He wouldn't have minded if you made him wait a year."

_He's a sniper. He's patient._

"That's just who he is."

_Was._

Don't you remember him at all?

Natasha slowly nods, her smile cracking into a cry as she lowered her head.

"It's alright, Natasha," Steve whispers, trying to comfort the agent. He was afraid to touch her, because she was so fragile, so uncharacteristic of her usual self and so distraught.

Because Barton would pierce him in an instant with his arrow if Steve so much as touched her.

* * *

When they returned to New York, unfulfilled and silent, they expected Natasha to have found closure. But she never needed it. She was the same as before-professional and hollow and every bit as focused and whole as her usual self save her eyes that reflected how empty they all felt.

Steve checked on her once a week or so, a different night each time, trying to catch her releasing her frustration or anger or depression in some form, some way. He wanted to save her, to be able to help her or do something, because as she was now he didn't know what to do and he didn't know what she needed. That uselessness was something he'd sworn off the moment Bucky died. He had to be able to do something, to save someone, because he couldn't stand to watch another friend died. He'd taken to backseat for far too long in the form of frozen preservatives.

"Natasha, are-"

He stopped when he finally caught her reading over material. Papers, files, folders. He picked up the nearest one; she ignored his presence completely as he fumbled through the tops. They were old mission reports, and it took a quick glance at two reports simultaneously to guess what they all had in common-they were partner missions with Barton.

"Natasha-" he cautioned.

"Montreal." She blurted. Steve cocked a brow at her.

"We posed as a couple, in Montreal. He mentioned it, you know? Before you showed up-" _Before he died_, "And Dominica, too. And Moscow." She scoffed, shaking her head. "I keep looking for a pattern. What did those missions mean to him, that he'd mention them again? Why bring them up? Maybe there's clues, maybe there is some sort of hint hidden in these files, in those missions, that I'm suppose to find. They'll lead me to him-"

"Natasha."

"-Why would he bring them up? Why those particular missions? What am I not seeing?"

"Natasha..."

"-I keep looking for a pattern..."

Steve breathed slowly, watching Natasha as her body shuddered once over and she stopped talking, stopped moving. She just stopped.

"...There isn't a pattern, though...is there?"

Steve said nothing.

She laughed, and it was hollow and chilling and Steve hated it.

"He could have said Oslo, or Budapest, or Hong Kong. It didn't matter the city. It didn't matter the mission-all that mattered was that we'd been there." Steve caught the rare sight of those brimming tears, the ones that never fell. "All but Lisbon."

She brought a hand up to cup her mouth, her smile cracking at how frivolous she'd been, how foolish she was, thinking he'd calculated clues to leave behind, a trail for her to follow to lead her to him.

"It's not a trail, because there's no end. It isn't some puzzle piece, and once I've figured it out he appears from behind some curtain as the grand prize. This isn't a game, there's no reward. He isn't waiting somewhere, timing me to see how long it takes for me to figure it out. There's just the hollow last words of..." Of a dead man.

Steve inhales and holds his breadth, looking down at the file reports without reading them.

"I think he left you a trail," he stutters, and Natasha whips her head up to look at Steve.

"He left those words to help you find the path to move on from."

He's telling her she's right. Barton set her on a path, in his final moments, and she's right to follow it. To heal, to move on. She's right, he meant something in his words to her.

He just isn't the prize at the end of it all, is all.

* * *

It's not long after that night when Natasha finally snaps, and it's the most relieving sight to watch. Steve gets to her before anyone else does, her position near enough to his. She's been shot through the thigh, a clean shot, straight through, but she's standing on pure shock and adrenaline alone. Her hands are cupping the trigger to the gun and the corpse at her feet is testimony to it.

Steve doesn't step any closer because at that moment Natasha lets out a scream and shoots the dead man three, four, six more times. The round clicks empty and she drops it. Eight bullets pierce the chest of the man, dry holes where blood has already run and there's nothing left.

When Steve does finally make himself known, Natasha doesn't look up. Her eyes and wide and her breathing is raged and she drops to her knees, but not from pain. From exhaustion.

"He twitched,"

She murmurs, and it's the worst lie she's ever told.

He knows why she did it and he can't condemn her for it. The man could've ended the world if she hadn't stopped him, but her world already ended. Six months ago, it ended.

Steve just sighs, rubbing his neck. At least she didn't destroy a bar-that had been his coping.

The others are quick to join the duo, and finally they manage to pull Natasha up, leaning her on Banner as an acting crutch, and make their way from the corpse, from this mission and this whole damn mess.

She doesn't try to justify herself, why she took the initiative to shoot down the target, and no one asks her to.

Because when they finally make it back to the Tower, Pepper walks in on Natasha crying at a photograph and when she tells the others they all pretend to turn away. Because she needs this and because it's a sign she's finally healing, allowing herself to mourn or move on instead of standing merely from shock and adrenaline alone.

* * *

_I would cry_

* * *

"Where've you been?" She mocks, like he isn't aware that she stalked him outside the room.

Barton shrugs, the disk safely sealed within an envelope back in his locker, where Natasha suspects he keeps it but won't look until after the mission, when he's already erased and terminated the message to replace it with a new one when their next mission comes along.

"Miss me?" He winks, and she rolls her eyes.

"We'll plant the explosives at each corner of the base foundation. It detonates nine minutes after we set the final one, so you have roughly five minutes to reach the roof. A Quinjet will recover us exactly two minutes before the devices detonate, so don't be late." She instructs, shooting Barton a warning look as she knows how he is with punctuality. He's never late, but in blatant, spy terms he's usually a 'last minute' arrival. His entrances can't be any worse than Stark's, though.

He cracks a grin at this, picking up on her meaning before stretching his arms out, reaching for his bow and nodding his approval.

"Right, set the explosive, five minutes to roof, nine minutes to explosion. Not our worst time crunch, by far."

"Elevators are out of use-stairs only."

Clint scoffs like it's nothing.

"What, you're frightened by a little exercise?"

"Just make the deadline, Barton."

"Natasha."

"...Clint."

He smiles, genuinely, and her shoulders relax.

"Steve's heading the mission?"

"He'll be commanding from the Quinjet. His com link is line 2."

"You're 1?"

She nods.

Turning to follow after her, Barton chuckles again.

"I like the Captain. He's a good guy."

Natasha nods, her own small smile spreading.

"I know."

* * *

_Oh baby, I would cry_

* * *

**_A/N:_**So if you're anything like me and these sad endings where one half of the couple (I think this drabble leans more towards romance than ambiguity) dies just makes you really depressed afterwards...here's a second ending...Hopefully it doesn't ruin the overall effect of the story (Is there one?) and you can choose to read it or not :p But I thoguht I'd throw it in here anyway~

Otherwise, that was the end :p

* * *

She's standing on the walls of Harlech Castle, watching the cold waters of the Irish Sea wave onto the rocks and shore beneath her. The cool, northern air splits through the grass and she regrets not grabbing a heavier jacket, not that her focus or discomfort is settled on the weather anyway. She's tense for several reasons, her main concern being in that she has no idea what her mark looks like.

Fury briefed her with a rather lack-luster amount of details concerning a top-priority mission allotted to her by Shield. All he discloses is that a reliable tip-off suggested they station an agent at Harlech Castle at this particular date and time.

Her fingers, growing cold and numb at how bare they are in this weather, beat against the rails in a rhythm with no pattern.

She can't even fathom what events will unfold-a terrorist bombing or an indiscreet underworld powers meeting, a trade off perhaps. She's been to locations with less information or plan than this before, but that doesn't make this any less unsettling.

She tried to pry Fury into more details to go off of on the mark; something, anything.

Fury honest-to-god shrugs.

"We don't know who the mark is. We just have a high suspicion that you'll recognize them."

Look for tourists, he provides.

There's an Asian couple not far from her, taking pictures of the view and posing proudly beside the stone walls. Natasha sighs, leaning against the rampart.

"How come we never took pictures like that?"

Natasha jumps, whipping her head around. She doesn't go for a weapon just yet, in case it's some flirtatious tourist that is otherwise harmless, but her neck hairs stand on end because _she knows that voice._

Her eyes meet a familiar smile.

"That's right. It's because we've never been to Wales."

Blue eyes stare back at her, before darting to look at her fingers.

"Are you married?"

* * *

**A/N2: **The song Clint sings (I really try not to include singing, I know, but gosh darnnit~) is 'Start Wearing Purple' by Gogol Bordello and I just have soooo many..._feels _towards the hilarity of this song and how well I think it goes with Clint, albeit a drunk one :p (Is it too much to ask for a gif or something where this song and Hawkeye combine in some way?) I highly suggest listening to it ;D

A lot of fics deal with the idea of a video message after death-some are very good. I (Again) tried so hard to avoid it, cause to me it's cliche, but I tried to make it somewhat plausible (tried) so forgive me for throwing that in :p

I've never been to Lisbon, hence the poor description and representation of it :'( I apologize for that, too..

Some of the conversations *CoughAllofthemCough* are a bit iffy to me...also, I treaded so lightly over the few mentions of Barton's back story, gonig off of what I remember from hours of Tumblr surfing on Hawkeye and what I picked up from his canon background in the comics, so~ It's prlly not all that accurate, but I think I avoided it well enough..? XD

I'll just stop now lol Hope some parts of this story were enjoyable!


	6. No Return

So~ After that last chapter, I really, really wanted to do a chapter that didn't involve Clint whumpage (I believe that's the term..?) And wanted to do something a lot more fluffy, like I've been meaning to. I had the chapter and song all lined up...and then a little scene worked it's way into the chapter...then that scene took over the entire plot...then the song changed...

Damn it, so here I am again with this kind of chapter :p Maybe I'm just too one note :I Then again, I had no idea what I was going to do with this song, so in the end I'm satisfied that I finally matched a story to it :p

This chapter might be confusing, there's a definite plot line it follows and then mixed between all that are flashbacks. I tried to keep a lot of it in character but a lot of moments/conversations are prlly going to appear OOC, sorry :(

Some quick mentions; The bomb scene at the very end as well as Barton's discussion on 'secrets' with Stark are both nods-off to two of Jeremy Renner's works (Hurt Locker and the Unusuals, respectively). The chess segment is a nod-off to Sherlock Holmes, and I apologize ahead of time for how inaccurate prlly everything said between the two of them about chess is :I Also, I'll make mention that I absolutely love the Olympics and have been watchnig the trials (If you can't tell) and also that, yes, I like the Titanic :p (That covers everything, I think..?)

Warnings; A few cuss words snaked in, here and there...(Ugh, and the length, again, is long~ sorry!)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, from the song to characters to any references made throughout~

* * *

_No Return_

* * *

_Oh, it's come to off me _

_Oh, there's nothing left in this world _

_Fear is dominating _

_Oh, there's nothing left in this world_

* * *

It doesn't take long to gain trust in Agent Barton. That was the fear Natasha secretly had harbored when everything finally blew over and the dust settled. New York was piecing itself back together and everything was going to work out because time went on and people had to band together. Because there was no 'or else' or 'if not's.

The Avenger's Initiative was the same.

It was no question on Captain America's involvement in the project-the perfect soldier was the team leader and ultimately the core. Iron Man just so happened to surpass his original evaluation to find a place amongst the team. Thor was an honorary member, so long as he was on the planet. Dr. Banner never wanted, nor was he officially, a part of the initiative, but when he switched his pass back to a third world country for a floor at Stark's Tower, it became apparent that if the offer had ever been officially presented, he'd take it. The offer part was just skipped altogether.

Natasha never once considered herself apart of it. She worked together closely with the others because she wanted, rather needed, to get to Barton. To bring him back. Even after, the only reason she stuck around was to settle a score. Because the earth was in trouble and as an agent it was her responsibility to help. And because Loki had hurt someone important to her, and that was as personal as an agent with no material ties could get.

It was at that exhausting dinner that it came to her attention that the Avengers had the same goal as her; to protect the earth, to the extremes, where Shield couldn't. Like an afterschool club, and she'd unintentionally joined it. This she realized when Stark finally coughed, speaking up, "It's a bit of a mess, but I think a few of the bottom floors are still in tact, I could have Jarvis take inventory, pull together some couches or what not-"

"What are you talking about, Stark?" Natasha grumbled, irritation and fatigue getting to the better of her.

"We'll need a place to sleep."

"Tony-" Steve started.

"I'll be damned if Shield has us on clean up throughout the night. We did our part. Let Shield and the locals handle the rest."

This didn't settle well with Steve, but Natasha could tell a part of him did agree. They had just saved the world...A few hours of sleep would be grateful.

"I won't hear another word of it! Jarvis will report to Shield, we'll have overnight bags and a tooth brush brought over, I'll order take out-"

"-We're eating right now."

"Right, I meant for Thunder over here-" Stark motioned to Thor.

Despite the looks passed between everyone, no one spoke up against Stark.

"That's settled, Avengers out!"

Tony rose, nudging Steve in the shoulder and looking expectantly at Banner, who was still eating but jumped awkwardly up. Thor rose more majestically, slowly.

Natasha crooked a half smile at Stark's words, before looking back at Barton. He never looked up from his book.

"What? Waiting for the end of the chapter? Come on, Barton, Romanov. I have separate bathrooms, you're fine."

Natasha shot a look up at Stark, slightly bewildered. He'd been meaning them as well?

"I said Avengers," Stark added in a lowered voice, but she caught the small smirk he gave her, of acceptance. Natasha hesitantly rose. Only until she was standing did Barton also rise to his feet.

* * *

_Free me like a captive _

_I'll walk on the streets for a while _

_France is all a blazing _

_But I'm wreaking havoc inside_

* * *

"Stark, we could really use you're back up, right about now!" Natasha barked through the com link.

"Well, see, I was just on my way, thinking 'oh, right about now I'm sure Natasha is itching to see me', and there just so happened to be this party waiting for me out front-"

"Cut the sarcasm, Stark," Natasha snapped.

A volley of bullets hit just shy of Natasha and she ducked behind the cover of the office desk for a moment, clicking in a new clip for her hand held before whipping back around and taking several quick-aimed shots. She saw two engaged enemy targets fall, only for three more to jump from their own cover and replace them. Just before she ducked, she caught sight of one falling limp, an arrow protruding from his chest.

She nodded thankfully to Clint, who responded with the same quick gesture. The mission wasn't too difficult-a hostage crisis spanning a sky scraper. The agents were currently trapped on either the sixteenth or seventeenth floor, using a makeshift desk fort for cover as the enemy did the same from the opposite room. The difference was that their engaged enemies were making progress in closing the distance, while Natasha and Clint were sitting ducks.

Steve was several floors ahead of them, having taken an opportunity earlier to make his escape to trek onward to rescue the hostages, leaving Natasha and Clint to clean up the mess as his back up. Thor was unheard of, and Stark and Banner were outside, dealing with whatever snipers and big guns were being targeted on the streets and innocent bystanders.

But, the situation was getting out of hand and Natasha had requested Stark's assistance. However, his unintentional delay wasn't doing them any good.

Dropping behind the desk once more, Natasha reached for another round, but found none. She was dry on ammo, and quickly looked to Clint. He wasn't watching her, but she caught a glimpse of his quiver and quickly came to the conclusion that he was nearly in her position.

"Stark, we really need you," Natasha emphasized, worried as she saw the look in Clint's eyes, without even looking behind him, that he'd come to the same conclusion as she had.

"I'm flattered, Romanov, but what would Barton say?"

Clint dropped behind the desk as another round fired off overhead. He shot a quick look to Natasha.

"They're gaining. I have two arrows left, that'll be enough to give us some cover to make a break for it for the elevator.

"They're un-operational," Natasha shook her head.

"I had Jarvis take care of that," Stark grunted from the other line.

"I'm glad your AI is at least timely," Natasha scoffed.

"Stark, is it operational on your command?" Barton asked.

"Yeah, give me a moment. What floor are you two on?"

"We don't have a moment," Natasha grimaced.

"Seventeen."

Natasha heard the thumping of footsteps approaching. Cursing, so stole a glance at the approaching enemies.

"Stark-" She warned.

Just then, a beep sounded and the elevator doors clicked open. Immediately a round of guns went off, but harmlessly hit the wall of the empty compartment.

"Stark, are you on your way?" Natasha sounded strained, desperate.

"Give me a second, honey," He snarled in return.

"On my count, Nat," Clint commanded, crouching in position to make a run for the elevator. He pulled out one of his two final arrows, prepping his bow as he nodded to Natasha.

"Now!"

The second they jumped up, firepower was chasing them. Natasha made a clear sprint, diving at the last moment through the doors that Jarvis was holding open. Behind her, Clint was a second in delay.

"Stark, Jarvis, do you hear me? Close the doors, now!" Natasha yelled the second her shoulder hit the wall.

Behind her, Clint had sent a single arrow flawlessly through, and a moment later an explosion sounded. Natasha almost sighed in relief, thinking they'd make it, but then it hit her. Already their attackers were recovering, posed and ready with the barrel of their guns singled out on one target. She realized Clint wasn't going to make it.

And he realized this a second before she did.

Natasha barely had time to react, pushing off the wall, everything slow and hazy as Clint whipped around, his back to the enemy as his final arrow shot straight to the wall beside the elevator-jamming the controls just as the doors closed.

In the split second before the silver shut her out, Natasha caught a glimpse of the opposite wall elevator doors opening, an unmistakable gold and red armor punching its way through the passage. She saw and heard the guns go off, and she saw the jerk in Clint's body as his back twitched from a hit.

And the last thing she saw was his grey eyes, wide and watching her with no expression as he fell, crumpling to the floor just as the doors closed.

"Clint!"

* * *

That was the moment she realized they were apart of the Avengers, Natasha recalls.

When Stark initiated them as such by reminding them, not asking, that they were Avengers. It never was a question of skill or ability or humanity. Stark was just a human, a damn intelligent and snarky one, but he was more vulnerable than the two agents. It was always a question of profession. They were two spies, already settled deep in the interworking of Shield and their operatives.

As Stark reminded them, however, they were probably soon to be looking into a new profession.

"Your faces should be plastered half way across the world by now!"

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Barton finally spoke up, causing Natasha to jump. Stark seemed unbothered by Barton's speaking, less so of his actual words.

"Amateur videos? Satellites? Street cameras? Finger prints, blood samples, discarded arrows? They'll find some trace on you tw-"

"Don't look down on Shield's resources. And I personally accounted for all my strewn arrows."

Natasha quirked a brow, cautious. When had he found the time to gather all loosed arrows? Unlike Stark, she didn't question the implausibility of it too much. Barton knew how many arrows he'd loosed and she bet he kept a better tab on it than one would expect, given the immediacy and hopelessness of the situation that would have clouded out any other priority during it's activity.

"Right...So, you're what? Not compromised? You'll be back across the world in a day or two, pretending to be some millionaire oil tycoon to get close to some drug cartel overlord and that's that? Back to business, same old same old?"

Clint flashed a quick grin.

"We're not compromised, that doesn't make us not human. Come on, Stark, even we need more than a day or two to recuperate."

Natasha didn't smile back at Barton, because she recognized the bruises and wounds that he was alluding to. That was definitely more than a day's worth of recovery.

She would've guessed two weeks.

"How long?" Stark asked, the teasing in his voice diluting on as he eyed Barton suspiciously, who shrugged in return.

"Three days, maybe."

* * *

Three days later, Barton was halfway across the world set as a sniper in retaliation towards an extremist group seeking to infiltrate an American embassy, planning to exploit the weakness of the attack on Manhattan.

* * *

_The fire fire fire fire _

_Came and went _

_We both go down _

_Yeah, we both go down_

* * *

"Clint! Clint!" Natasha was screaming through the com, but no response was coming through. She switched to Stark, barking at him for an update.

"Barton's down," Stark grunted, all traces of his humor from earlier gone. She heard the familiar charges of Stark's suit and recognized the beep of warning as his reactors blasted through the enemy line that was giving the two agents so much trouble. In a great, contrasting irony, her end of the line was quiet save the timed dings of the elevator through each floor.

"Stark, where does this elevator get off? I can't control it-"

"I had Jarvis circuit it to reach the penthouse floor, you're to meet up with the Captain-"

"Bullshit, I'm taking the stairs. I'll be done there in a minute, just hold ground and keep Barton-"

"Natasha, listen to me. Barton's going to be fine, I've got him, he's right next to me-"

"What's his status? Is he awake, is he-?" Alive?

"He's been hit...I can't turn him over, but it looks like two clean shots through, there might be more on his back-" Tony flinched as more fire power unloaded on him, before sending another guided attack on the persistent opposing forces. Turning his attention back on Barton, he continued, "He's having trouble breathing but I've got his hands on the wounds, we're slowing the breathing down-"

"Put him on the line." Natasha demanded.

There was a shuffle of the equipment and the distant sound of Tony taking up the offensive again as Barton wheezed on.

"Nat?"

"Hang in there, Barton, I'm coming back down-"

"Don't be stupid, Nat."

"Me be the one that's stupid..? What the hell was that? You-"

"Finish the mission, Nat," He cut her off.

That was the last thing Natasha wanted to hear, but it was exactly what she needed.

"Clint-"

There was another cough and the com was pulled away from Barton.

"Clint? Clint-" Again, the shuffle of static and she realized the link was back in the possession of Stark.

"Stark, watch over Barton. Keep me updated on his status, keep him alive. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Mom."

Natasha stashed the link in her ear again just as the elevator approached the top floor.

"I'm going to rendezvous with Rogers, we're going to complete this mission and then get the fuck out of here and get Barton to a hospital." Natasha announced, as though she was issuing new orders.

There came no response but she knew Stark understood.

"The mission comes first," she whispered to herself, as a mechanism to calm down. Barton was strong, he could last a couple of minutes on shock alone. She just didn't want to risk the minutes after.

* * *

_There is no return _

_Or lost and found _

_We both go insane _

_Without a sound_

* * *

Thor trusted Barton half out of pity and remorse, at first. This man had been controlled by his brother (He'd only heard the whispers and details hushed overhead, clear of Natasha' hearing, when he'd first arrived on the strange air craft). The full story came after the aliens had settled and debriefing had taken place. So that's who this man was, he'd thought. His eyes hollow and tired, his fingers strained and muscles twitching. He looked as fragile and broken as he probably felt, no doubt after the mind tricks of Thor's own brother.

But then he'd fought through it all, and any hint of weakness or fatigue in his stance or physical attributes disappeared. He fought like any of the others, extraterrestrial or not.

So much that Thor forgot he was human, because he surpassed those limits long ago. The moment Barton stopped seeming weak and human to Thor was the moment he gained his trust.

* * *

The elevator door slipped open and instantly Natasha was on the ground, rolling as bullets pelted above her.

"Cap!" She yelled, trying to assess the situation quickly.

Something flew above her and the bullet trail ended to the sound of metal clinking against bone.

"Romanov, over here!"

Natasha made a bee lien sprint towards Roger's voice, diving beside him as he caught his returning shield.

"Barton?" Steve asked, looking hopefully between Natasha and the elevator. She didn't answer him.

"What are we looking at, Cap?"

"We need to detain the perimeter. There's some kind of big gun docked by the window, manned by one gunner. It's terrorizing the streets below; Thor's out there trying to fight his way in, but this thing is shooting him out of the sky."

"Banner?"

Rogers shook his head.

"Right..."

"There's at least six backing him, if we can take them out, we can make a run for the-"

"On it," Natasha jumped up, ignoring Steve's protests and she unlatched a device from her belt. Giving it a quick throw, her finger clicking the small device into play, she watched it land and immediately taser the nearest two guards.

As they fell, she leapt up onto the nearest one, sending a kick to the man standing as back up to the first two assailants, sending a Widow's Bite into the shoulder of the fourth male.

With a draw as quick as lightning, she gripped the gun from the crumpling man's holster and aimed it at the fifth guard, shooting him point blank. Just as she turned to face the sixth man, Cap's shield blurred and beat her to the hit.

Natasha whipped around to look at Rogers.

"I can't let you have all of them."

Natasha didn't respond, because already they were wasting time. This whole mission was a waste of time. They needed to get Barton to a hospital.

Stepping over the bodies, Natasha rounded the corner of the office to caught sight of what appeared a tank rifle, pointed through an open window of the sky scraper. The man in the seat of the sniper had yet to notice Natasha, and she didn't give him a chance. Within moments, his neck was snapped, the gun powering down through lack of control.

"Right, that's done."

"That's not it, we have to secure-"

Steve was cut off as a gun shot sounded throughout the room, both Steve and Natasha ducking as a new assailant entered.

It was at that moment that true lightning burst through the window. opposite of the wall Natasha was crouched by.

* * *

_Whoa, we came undone _

_And slowly but surely, _

_We knew that it was hopeless, baby_

* * *

Thor found an immediate attraction towards the Olympics.

It started with Barton, which wasn't all that much of a surprise. After insistence by Natasha and even Stark (Who had spied enough through Jarvis's intelligence), Barton was confided in an almost house arrest within the house from the training facility, as it was doing his injuries from a previous mission no good, straining them excessively.

Stark had insisted he "Be normal, watch television" and Natasha (Still obviously upset over Barton from said previous mission) actually hid his books and bow from him. If he looked hard enough, naturally, he'd be able to find them. But, rather than give cause to unnecessary fighting, he merely sat himself at the TV and made a show to mindlessly flip through channels.

Then, as it happened, he passed through a sports channel, premièring the Olympic Trials. At first he sat through a few swimming events, taking note on the forms and techniques of the athletes, and even when that program ended he found little motivation to change the channel.

Which lead to him sitting through the men's diving trials.

As it would happen, Pepper was in that day and on her way to the kitchen, she needed merely to catch a glimpse of one athlete in a Speedo before she squeezed her way onto the couch beside Barton.

Bruce entered the room and attempted to remain indifferent, until after a particular dive, he broke out, "That entry was phenomenal! He kept his feet together through the water..!"

He joined Pepper on the opposite couch.

Natasha, checking to make sure Barton wasn't unnecessarily exercising, also found some form of merit in watching the event and took her place between Pepper and Barton on the floor. Barton offered her his spot, but she declined.

Steve joined a few minutes later, simply because everyone else was watching, and even Stark jumped between Banner and Potts, mostly to gain back the attention of Pepper.

When Thor walked in, the questions were numerous and his thirst for understanding was unquenchable.

"What gain is this sport for?"

"To make it to the Olympics, it's just a trial. Like...Prelims."

The Olympics was a whole new concept that also required explanation. This fell down to Barton, who as it would turn out was quite the fan of the Olympics (Archery being his favorite event, naturally). Stark remained indifferent throughout most of the conversation and shrugged it off.

If the prospect of diving and swimming illuminated Thor in interest (He recalled several stories of Asgardian sporting events and races that made more than one teammate uncomfortable with how ordinary the blood fest brawls sounded), then the men's gymnastics only furthered that interest.

"Ah, these men have great strength!" Thor complimented, in awe as the athletes pulled themselves up by hands and wrists alone.

Stark, however, was unimpressed.

"Male gymnastics...men in blue tights, it's not exactly a show of masculinity, is it?"

He, however, was preaching to the wrong crowd.

"Says you, in your red and gold Barbie mold," Natasha quipped, garnering a snicker from Pepper. The Captain also looked amused, taking offense to the 'blue tights' (And any snide remark made towards anyone representing America at an honorable level of merit).

"Fair enough," Stark agreed, if only because Natasha could easily kick his ass if he said anything out of term. "But, I mean...come on, gymnastics? It's like ballet, or-"

"Acrobats?"

"Exactly! Circus kind of thing, that whole freak show; it's not very manly-"

Stark froze when he realized who had offered the suggestion.

None other than circus-acrobat-freak himself.

Thor, however, had remained oblivious to the conversation.

"What is this? This here event, what name do Midgards refer to it as?"

Clint, without so much as taking his trained eye off of Stark, replied, "Pummel horse. It's rather difficult."

Stark, not quite knowing when to shut up and eager to lose Barton's attention, did exactly what he shouldn't have; he fidgeted, looking between Thor and the television and Barton, muttering, "It's not all that difficult...Or impressive."

Challenge accepted.

* * *

And somehow they'd found themselves all filing into the training room (Exactly what Natasha had been fighting to keep Barton from doing) as he performed tricks a top a balance beam that rivaled the routines they'd witnessed moments ago on the broadcast.

"Ya, aright, it looks mildly difficult-"

Barton dropped his left hand, spinning momentarily on only his right and swinging his waist high above the bar before spreading his legs and bringing them up into a hand stand, only to twist down back into another sway of weaving his legs in and out with the bar constantly between him, only supported by the palms of his hands.

"...It's hard. Alright, happy?"

Thor, like everyone else and ignoring Stark, was booming with laughter.

"Amazing! You must teach me this trick, Master Barton!"

Barton, dismounting with a firm landing, smiled at the Thunder God.

"I'd be my genuine pleasure."

* * *

Thor landed, cracking the marble floor as he did so.

The man opposite of him, dressed head to toe in disguised black, shivered with terror, aiming his gun at Thor.

"You would point such a trivial, small weapon at myself-"

The man ignored Thor, unleashing a full clip of ammo at the God, who didn't so much as flinch as each bullet bounced from his armor. When the gun clicked empty, the man panicked, tossing it aside.

"-Shame upon your houses, I damn it upon thee," Thor rambled on, ignoring each bullet as he stepped toward the man.

As a last resort, the terrorist grabbed at something on his hip, again directing him aim at Thor.

"That will not work, my friend, against so mighty a person as myself, The God of Th-"

The man, at the last moment, dipped his weapon downward, unleashing a spinning volatile of weighted ropes which snapped about Thor's legs, tightening as the twisted around him and pushing his feet from under him. Collapsing, Thor caught himself on the floor just before his face crashed in, frowning at the handicap delivered to him.

"He's getting away!" Natasha yelled, jumping up from her position to pursue the man, who was turning to make his escape. Not that he would have, however.

At that moment, Thor holstered himself up by his fore arms, spinning his hips from the waist down to swing his feet at the man, tripping him just as Thor vaulted himself to stand. In one hand he gripped the rope and tore it away from his feet, sighing as he cast it aside. Steve, standing momentarily after Natasha, stared alongside her at Thor in disbelief.

"Thor...you just-"

"Admittedly, Barton is much better than I."

* * *

"Where did you learn these tricks, Barton?" Thor barked, amused. Barton tossed him a water, wiping his own brow on a towel as he did so. Thor was a fast learner, granted he was a bit bulky and sloppy, but the gist of the movements he picked up quickly.

"Circus," he answered.

"What is this...?"

"Circus," Barton provided again. "It's like...well, from my understanding, Asgard has, ah...minstrels, entertainers, right?"

"That it does."

Barton nodded. "It's like those. Normally, people come to see us-er, the circus. It's a show, a performance."

"With jugglers and dancers?" Thor mused.

Barton grimaced momentarily, "Ya, there's some of those."

Thor heaved a great sigh, shaking his lightly as he grasped all these foreign concepts.

"Olympians...Circus...Midgard is very different than Asgard."

Barton shrugged.

"I don't think there's too much of a difference."

Thor laughed.

"No, I suppose not."

* * *

_Whoa, we came undone _

_And slowly but surely, _

_We knew that it was hopeless, baby _

_How am I to face me? _

* * *

Trust came to Barton easily in the form of Captain Steve Rogers. It had taken a whole nod-from-Natasha and Steve had been won over. Rather, Barton's trust came in a package deal with Natasha, whom Steve had earned trust for when she'd flown and operated as his backup in Germany in their first encounter of Loki.

If she approved of Barton, so did Steve.

Easily, Steve left Barton to be the eyes in the back of his head-to call the shots and stragglers up top. Barton was the best, as he'd heard, and Steve wouldn't dispute that. Agent Barton gained Steve Roger's trust before the Quinjet had ever touched New York ground.

* * *

"Stark, do you copy? Can you hear me? Tony?"

Static, followed by, "Loud and clear, Romanov." He sounded irritated.

"How's Barton?"

"He's got a pulse. It's faint, but it's there."

"Is he conscious?"

Silence was her answer.

"Stark, where are you?"

"Where you left us," He grumbled.

"And the front?"

"Still coming in waves. I can hold these guys off, but it's difficult by myself-"

"You won't be by yourself. We're coming to you-"

"Who is 'we'?"

"I've got Thor and the Captain with me-"

"Well hurry, the opposition is gaining an upper hand down here-I'm loosing battery charge to acid corrosion down here, and Barton isn't getting better by the minute-"

"Stark, we're on our way," Natasha replied, severing the connection with Stark. The elevator sprung open and Natasha shoved the trio in.

"Any word on Banner?" Natasha looked hopefully to Thor, who shook his head in reply.

"Right...well, let's get down there as save Stark's ass."

"Natasha..?" Steve questioned. Flinching, she looked up at the blonde.

"...Barton's going to be alright."

She nodded like it was common knowledge, but her eyes betrayed her worry.

"I know."

* * *

The doors opened, unleashing a blast of thunder that sent anyone less than a few meters in front of Stark's defensive position flying backwards. Stark jumped, turning around just as Natasha and Steve bolted behind the fortified desk compound Stark had composed to shield Barton.

"How is he?" Natasha instantly questioned, reaching for his pulse. It was more a flicker than an actual pulse, and he'd lost a considerable amount of blood.

"We need to get him to a hospital," Steve noted, more Captain Oblivious than America in that moment.

Stark sighed, watching as Thor made his way across the room, bullets acting more like misguided pebbles as his hammer spun at his arm.

"First thing's first, you need to get him out of here. Sparky over there is about to light the whole room up."

Steve helped prop Barton between himself and Natasha, slumping the man's arm over each their shoulder's.

"Get him in the elevator. I'll have Jarvis send you to the basement, the parking garage. Get him to the hospital, we'll clean things up here." Stark turned to Rogers, "Any word from Banner?"

Steve shook his head.

"Right, Jarvis?" Stark commanded, his AI voicing through the suit.

"Yes sir?"

"Get me in contact with Banner. He should still be positioned outside, evacuating civilians across the street for cover."

"Right away, sir."

"We're going, Stark," Steve called just as him and Natasha made a break for the elevators again. Stark turned his attention back to Thor.

"Right, circus-freak to a hospital, you hear me? No pit stops, that means you, Soviet!"

Natasha spared Stark the bird, to which he didn't even see but nonetheless was aware of.

* * *

_The embers have gone from my eyes _

_Perhaps I'll throw a soirée _

_And kiss every man I invite_

* * *

The task of educating Steve in the rite of passage known as driving fell upon Clint's shoulders, after much debate.

Tony was briefly considered for nearly a whole second before everyone came to the same imaginative conclusion-Tony was a terrible teacher. The all easily could see it now; Stark half-heartedly instructing Steve in a vehicle that was far too high tech for even the average driver to understand, mumbling jokes and quips about Steve's progress and caring minimally about the public property damage that Steve caused because, let's face it, Stark could afford it.

It was that lack of care that immediately casted Tony from the count.

Banner was considered for a far more impressive minute, before it was brought to the attention that while Banner was no doubt a steady hand and decent teacher, the 'other guy' probably lacked the patience or had the nerve to deal with a first-time driver. Banner shamefully withdrew his hand.

Thor wasn't ever considered.

Natasha fell into the next best, but the hope of her was lost at the whim of Tony making some crude remark about women behind the wheel. The slam of a door following gave her answer.

So, it was then that everyone turned to the silent but present Barton, who had observed the debate yet hardly thrown in any input other than to point out another flaw of Stark's, not that he didn't already have enough going against him to convict him to the prospect of being banned from being even in the passenger seat.

It wasn't that Steve had never driven before-hell, he'd even operated a few planes back in his day.

Simply, the technology gap was rather large and he needed a...second course in driving, to adjust.

The duo took a rented car, a regular jeep, lent from Shield (like Tony would have offered up one of his prized collection pieces in the first place) and left early one Saturday morning. They returned exactly an hour later, without so much as a word.

This was fine, for the first three days. By the fourth day, Stark was curious. He casually dropped a question to Steve (The Captain was more likely to offer any answer as opposed to the Hawk) on how the driving crash courses were going.

Steve shrugged, "Fine, I guess."

Natasha, nearby, smirked. She could almost see Stark's dissatisfaction, despite only catching a glimpse of his profile as Rogers took the lack of Tony's response as a cue that the conversation was over, exiting the room.

* * *

The elevators opened, and Natasha immediately made a dart for the nearest vehicle, positioning Barton in the back seat of a jeep. Steve dropped his hold and jumped into the driver's seat, just as Natasha gently lowered Barton's back in seat. She positioned him comfortably, as best she could, before jumping up to look at Steve.

"Are you sure you should-"

"Relax, I learned from the best," he winked through the rear view mirror, fumbling with some cut wires in the steering wheel.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at the action.

"When did you learn to jump start a car?"

Steve shrugged, confidently sparking the wires.

"Like I said, I learned from the best."

Just as the jeep jumped alive, Natasha reminded herself to discuss with Barton which bad habits to pass along to the uncorrupted Captain and which not to. At this moment, though, she supposed it was a useful enough skill.

Settling into the seat and fastening his seatbelt, Rogers shifted the car's gears.

"Right, hold onto him. I think the hospital is left from out of here. Keep him awake," He added, mumblnig the last part more to himself than to remind Natasha.

Natasha only nodded, turning her attention back on Clint.

* * *

"I-isn't that illegal?" Steve questioned, looking between Barton's fingers and the sparking wires.

"In our line of work, sometimes legality takes a back seat to necessity. Here, you try-"

Steve frowned, eyeing Barton and the car. At least they hadn't stolen the car, else he'd really feel unnerved about this lesson.

"Once you get it started, we'll drive around the block a few more times," Barton added, settling into the passenger seat. Steve, sighing, fumbled with the wires until the car jolted awake, again, and then nearly jumped when he noticed Barton was settling to sleep, eyes closed and hands crossed.

"B-Barton? You're not-you can't go to sleep-"

"I trust you," He muttered.

"B-but..."

"Cap, I'm tired," Barton blurted honestly. "Car rides are calming...they help me sleep. We're in the neighborhood, you know this route, these streets, and we've gone this way a couple times by now. I trust you can make the right decisions and you're not too bad a driver. So, turn your indicator on and pull out to the right. Gentle, now, don't peel out."

Steve, nervous, did as he was instructed.

"...You really trust me?"

Barton smirked, still not opening his eyes.

"Or I'm just that damn tired."

* * *

_The fire fire fire fire _

_Came and went _

_We both go down _

_Yeah, we both go down_

* * *

Trust of Agent Barton to Dr. Banner came after he woke up, groggy and hazy as the rubble settled and the Hulk subsided within his mind. The only convincing he needed of trusting Barton was the fact that he'd been present and the Hulk hadn't killed him. He'd fought alongside the others and survived.

That garnered his trust enough.

* * *

Banner watched as the sniper's fire from the top floor ended, several frightened civilians clutching around him from the safety of the opposite street. He'd opted to sit on stand by for this job. It'd appeared easy enough.

A hold up in a sky scraper, some assembled weaponry on the top floor and some crunching numbers of assailants who had conquered the building. Most evacuations had taken place early on, Banner assisting in the organization outside. Thor had distracted the large gun, with Steve and the two agents heading inside to take out the gun and opposition from inside. Stark, who headed the evacuations, was to make his way up as back up once the civilians were all safe.

Which had occurred a good ten or so minutes ago. Thor had finally broken into the building, and silence had filled the air as Banner waited for any sign of his teammates or the enemy or struggle or just anything.

Finally, he felt his com go alive as Stark's voice broke through.

"Banner-Bruce, are you there?"

"Tony? I'm here, what's going on-"

"Barton's been hit. I'm cleaning up on the...sixteenth? Whatever floor, Romanov and the Cap are making their way to the parking garage, they need to get him to the hospital-"

"Barton's..? What, wait, Tony, what all happened-?"

"I need you to Hulk out."

Banner didn't even wait to be told twice, stepping outside onto the crunch of glass as he warned the civilians to stay down and stay inside.

* * *

_There is no return, _

_Or lost and found _

_We both go insane _

_Without a sound_

* * *

In the wake of each member's individual mourning and recovering from the attack on Manhattan, Banner had surprisingly opened up more than he'd expected. In his previous grievances, after his initial experiences with 'the other guy', he'd found himself distancing himself more and more from society and people.

This time around, it was like he was being drawn towards this specific group, a cluster of rejects and freaks no different than himself.

He had regrets and knew loss, but not so much as Steve Rogers. He'd had his whole world shaken upside down and come out alive from the other end with a new understanding, and he saw the same expression of a changed man in Thor as well. He knew about weakness and how difficult it was to hide it, or hide behind it, and that vulnerability was in Stark as much as it was him (Just under layers upon layers of narcissism and egotism).

And as much as Natasha pretended to be strong and invulnerable, she was just as much so as Stark and, inevitably, Banner himself.

And yet, even after years of denying himself any form of company or comrade, and after finally accepting these individuals to share in his flaws, his misery, he still couldn't see any comparison between himself and Barton. Sure, there was the obvious that he too avoided people and kept his silent distance, but his reasons were different than Banner's. It was by choice and not fear that he lingered from a distance or observed others without a word. There was an air about the archer that contrasted everything that Banner was about, and never could Banner imagine they shared in some self-loathing department or other.

This was, until, the moment their roles switched. It was a brief moment when Barton's eyes were focused on Natasha, and Banner had just happened to look up at Barton, and suddenly the hawk was the one being watched and read and dissected.

Natasha was engaged in some conversation with Stark, humoring his nuisance talking about disguises and aliases. Barton was apart of the conversation yet wasn't contributing, and Natasha had the painstaking pleasure of answering all of Stark's whimsical questions.

"You can do all that? You're skilled in that many different areas..?"

"Agents have to be masters at all arts. If a job requires a certain skill of us, we need to be able to perform it to better mold to our cover."

Stark snorted in bewilderment.

"And appearances? You, I imagine, are some sort of chameleon..?"

"Disguises are a part of the cover..." Natasha replied, amused at Stark's disbelief and inability to grasp how simple a concept that was.

"So I imagine you've dyed your hair before..?"

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"I've been blonde, brunette, had jet black raven hair...I've tanned, paled, slimmed down or built up muscle-"

"You sound like an actor," Stark muttered. He then turned to Barton, nodding at him.

"What then, I suppose you have, too?"

Barton shrugged.

"If the job called for it."

"My god, you're both like puppets," Tony feigned horror. "Mannequins, dressed and dolled on the whims of that mean Director Fury," he joked. "I can't imagine someone pulling the strings on my poor, blue eyed bird man. The horror-"

Stark's joke was harmless, but his choice of words were obviously not. Natasha seemed to stop whatever motion she was mid-action of performing, snapping to look at Barton who had visibly tensed. His eyes darted from Stark to Natasha to the floor, before he uncomfortably rose and coughed an excuse to leave.

And it hit Banner that he and Barton did share something in common. An understanding that no one else could relate to.

Natasha had made to follow him but Stark was already bombarding her with a new round of questions that she had to dodge. By then, Banner was already on Barton's trail and he shot a glance at Natasha, letting her know that he'd handle this one, if she didn't mind.

That helpless look she gave in return only confirmed to Banner that she and Stark were more alike than she'd care to admit.

* * *

Banner found Barton on the roof.

"This is a surprise," Barton mused before Banner had even fully stepped out onto the terrace. Banner shrugged.

"I'm no Natasha, I'll admit..."

Barton said nothing, so Banner continued.

"I...well-"

"Don't beat around the bush, Doc," Barton offered. Banner pondered this a moment, smiling, before reaching to clean his classes.

"Very well, then. I get it."

Barton raised a brow, turning to look and acknowledge Banner finally.

"What Stark said...It's about Loki, isn't it? Why you came up here and-" He motioned to Barton's brooding, though if Barton realized it he said nothing.

"Doing things and knowing that you're doing them...that you're causing things, but having no control over it...I get that, too."

And any animosity Barton had melted, because if there was one person he could relate his experience under the Tesseract to, it was Banner. Because Selvigg didn't kill anybody, and because having all his training to protect those he worked with and for turned against them and him was only relatable to someone who had gone through the very same.

"Stark tried to explain to me that...the other guy, wasn't some curse. That maybe he was a blessing-"

"So you think what happened has...some sort of positive side to it?" His voice rose, and Banner wondered if Barton was as fearless as Stark when it came to urging Banner's anger, or if he just didn't care at this point.

"Not really," Banner rejected. "It's a bit different. The other guy...He's a part of me, in a way. A darker part of me, that's there but I don't...normally acknowledge. I control to subdue him and when I'm successful, he's dormant. You...what happened to you wasn't another 'side' to you or a hidden part of you. It was you, solidly, a hundred percent. It was your regular emotions and self and thoughts. Just, they were being controlled."

Banner looked up hopefully at Barton, questioning if he was understanding all this. Barton's face didn't change, so he assumed to just continue.

"I can't control the Hulk and he's a part of me, but he's not this part of me," Banner motioned to his self at present. "What Loki did..."

"It was me," Barton offered, concluding his own fear. That everything he'd done was his fault.

"It wasn't your fault though-"

"Isn't that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying the part of you that you had no control over, the part of you that was being manipulated, isn't some 'other guy' that you can blame."

"So it's my fault-"

"But you can't blame yourself either. You have to blame the source, you have to blame Loki, because he made you do it, he turned you against-"

"Loki isn't here to accept the responsibility. I am. Those lives fall to me, those damages-"

"You didn't have a choice, you can't-"

"Can't what? Blame myself? Who do I blame, then? Someone has to take the blame-"

"I told you, Loki-"

"That isn't it...It can't just be Loki-" Barton stopped, his breathing peaking for a moment before he sighed and relaxed, any trace of worked up anger or resentment gone.

Banner ran a hand through his hair.

"Maybe I should have left this to Natasha."

There was a short pause, before Barton mumbled, "No...thank you."

Banner scoffed.

"For what?"

Barton thought a moment.

"Because you're right. You get it. You know what it's like, to be uncontrollable and to cause harm and pain...you know that more than anyone."

Again, Banner tipped his head in a nod off bitterly.

"It's not exactly something to be proud of, I'm not expecting an award for it-"

"But Stark's right."

Banner cocked a brow.

"The other guy...he isn't all bad. I've seen shades of it, I think you could control him, if you accept him as a part of you. He might be more willing to work with you, if you'd open up to him a bit."

Banner pondered this a second before snorting.

"Even if I turned around and started...using him for good, it wouldn't make the past mistakes go away-"

"-It never does," Barton responded. Banner stared at him, and suddenly it seemed they had even more in common.

* * *

Banner doesn't remember much, being in an angrier and greener state at the time, but later Natasha would inform him that he smashed his way through the bottom floor, collapsing the sky scraper's supports in on themselves and causing a collapse of the whole building. She'd tell him how he single-handedly crumbled to offensive opposition and saved the team from having to deal with any tails as they made their escape from the tower in the jeep which Steve had wired.

And she'd thank him for clearing the roads of any rubble as Steve swerved through the track of debris chunks in race to reach the hospital in time for Barton.

Banner wouldn't remember any of it, but he might recall a moment of sprinting beside said jeep, with a blur of figures boarded in it, and catching a glimpse of a certain limp archer, who in all his paleness and weakness, appeared to smile and just possibly wink as the 'other guy' sprinted ahead, a new sense of urgency propelling him to make way for the tiny vehicle.

* * *

Natasha was arguing with Stark, again. Barton eyed the glass of water in front of him, when Banner walked in, nodding at the trio before taking a seat at the counter. Stark tried to bring Banner into the conversation, as a sort of back-up to his own defense, but Natasha was winning the argument and Banner opted to remain neutral.

He caught sight of Barton and jerked his head at the man in question.

"You alright?" He asked, low enough that neither Natasha nor Stark would hear.

For a fraction of a second, Banner smiled.

"Yeah...better."

Banner nodded, understanding.

"Me too."

* * *

_Oh, we came undone _

_And slowly, but surely _

_We knew that it was hopeless, baby_

* * *

Over the course of the few years Romanov had been apart of Shield, he'd actually grown accustomed to her barging into his office regardless of the hours and warnings. There was no breaking her of this habit and he had enough patience to hear out whatever nonsense she decided to bombard him with each time. He'd argue with her after she got whatever it is she needed to say out.

"I want to marry Barton."

Fury raised his good brow.

"Agent Romanov, isn't that something you should take up with Barton himself..?"

"I mean for our covers."

Fury's expression didn't change.

"Sir...neither of us has a family, you and I both know we're the closest thing either of us has. So, if we end up in some remote, foreign country hospital, with Barton spilling his intestines in the hallway during the rush to the ER, I want the illegitimate papers that permit me to be in that room with him if he's dying while we wait for Shield to evacuate us to a safe house location and higher technology facilities."

Ah, so this was about their last mission.

"Romanov, I cannot promise that every mission will require that cover. You, as a spy and agent, should know that your covers must be versatile-"

"Then I want the back up cover. I don't care if we go in single, but if one of us goes down on a mission, I want the clearance that those local goons accept so that I'm there in case he-" She didn't finish, but she didn't need to.

"Agent Romanov, circumstances for each mission vary. Whose to say you will ever end up in that situation again-"

"Then just as a precautionary."

Fury inhaled.

"Please."

After a moment, he sighed.

"Have you discussed this with Barton?"

Natasha, who never lost much of her composition to begin with despite her passionate demand, straightened herself a little, brushing back a loose hair.

"It's nothing I deemed that needed to be brought to his attention."

"You deemed," Fury snorted, rolling his shoulders back.

"I'll see what I can do."

Natasha nodded, not bothering to argue any further. Fury had bent the rules enough for her already, and she wasn't about to run that patience and trust completely to the ground.

* * *

Clint whistled.

"What do you know." He flashed his ID card. "Mr. and Mrs. Packard." He scoffed. "This is what...fifth time in a row? You think those up in Intelligence are trying to tell us something," He winked.

Natasha rolled her eyes and ignored him.

* * *

The nurse looked terrified, looking between Natasha and Steve and finally at the limp Barton.

"Put him on this stretcher," She commanded, signaling for doctors and nurses to assist her. They tugged the man towards the metal doors at the end of the waiting room, shouting orders as Natasha and Steve jogged to keep up.

"I'm sorry," She insisted, stopping the duo as Barton was pulled through the doors. "Only family beyond this point-" Steve looked exasperated.

"What..? But, we're-"

"He's my husband!" Natasha blurted.

The nurse looked more shocked at that than their appearances (The cat suit and American flag get-up weren't exactly the most normal looking outfits to sprint into a hospital in). Steve looked half sick.

"You're.." Both Steve and the nurse questioned. Natasha quickly nodded.

"I-I have the paperwork, please...just, please let me through."

Slowly, the nurse nodded, allowing Natasha to sprint past her after Clint. Steve, bewildered, stood by, retreating tot he waiting room chairs to wait for Banner to revert to normal and the others to join him.

His com link burst alive as, surprisingly, Fury's voice patched through.

"Rogers, what is going on down there?"

"S-sir?"

"Stark already called in. I know about Barton. I'm sending a Quinjet to lift you all out of there, once Barton's out of immediate surgery we'll lift him out for treatment from Shield's medical-"

"I-I don't know if he'll be alright to move. He just got sent of for surgery, Natasha's with him...Director, are they..?"

Fury ignored him.

"We'll see when we get there, won't we? Stark and Thor are on their way, wait for further instruction."

Without anything else to do, Steve nodded, slouching into his seat. He'd need a lot of explaining, later.

* * *

"How about this one?" Barton asked, lifting another DVD for Natasha to scrutinize. She rejected it with a childish face of disgust.

"Too sappy."

Barton laughed out loud.

"Too sappy? Natasha, there's hardly any romance in this-"

"There's the problem," She remarked, dryly. Barton, frowning, dropped the DVD and reached for another.

"This one?"

She shook her head.

"Then this?"

No.

"Damn, Natasha. They sent us to pick up a couple of movies, at this rate we'll return empty handed-"

"Then we show up with nothing!" She agreed, frustrated. Barton stopped moving, holding the basket in place.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I just don't see why we have to be here-"

"-Because Stark wants us to slowly reintroduce Steve into the modern world via movie marathons. That's not it, though, is it?"

Damn him, knowing exactly what the problem was.

"It's just...well, your movie selection sucks."

Barton scoffed.

"Nice choice of words, Black Widow."

She hissed at him to lower his voice.

"I think...you hate any bit of romance."

"It's not romance, that's just mushy acting and-"

"Oh, if that isn't cynical! Do you always drink your vodka half empty?"

She spat. He was sounding like Stark.

"Let's just grab a comedy-"

"Why? Afraid of a little romance? Love?"

She uncharacteristically stiffened at the word, pushing past Barton.

"Grab a movie and let's leave."

Barton sighed.

"Natasha...this isn't about a movie-"

"Drop it, let's go."

"Why are you-?"

"I said drop it!"

She expected him to argue with her, to make some large scene. She was afraid he would, because for not the first time since Loki, she felt uncomfortable. And it had to do with those toying words, with the concept of 'love', and with Barton. And she didn't want to confront that, and she certainly didn't want to do so with Barton prying.

Surprisingly, he didn't argue. He merely reached for the nearest comedy, without so much as reading the title, yet never dropping the flick in his hand.

"Fine. But, one day, we will watch this movie," And with that he set it down.

She knew he wasn't talking about the movie, and maybe one day they would have that conversation that she was too afraid to acknowledge.

* * *

_Oh, we just gave up _

_And slowly, but surely _

_We're moving onto something, baby _

* * *

Stark had difficulty trusting anyone, as it was. He trusted Banner-not the 'Other Guy'. He trusted Steve, if only because he doubted the good-two-shoes could possibly commit any treason towards him as he was seemingly programmed to be an after-school special, but he didn't like him. It took a bit longer to trust Thor, if only because his character seemed as wholesome and honest as the Captain's yet his intentions and, in all honesty, species were less clear. He trusted a paid hooker more than he trusted Natasha, though he could trust that she would never fail whatever she set her mind to.

Barton wasn't as unnervingly edgy as Natasha was. He was a likeable guy, when he spoke, and just as serious. Stark knew not to blame or hold any of Barton's actions while under Loki's control against him because it was just that-Loki's control. Still, he was apart of the Shield operative, and Stark never trusted them a damn bit to begin with.

But as a person, Stark didn't fully trust Barton until it was off duty of a mission, a regular day off of quiet bliss and no trouble at the Tower. No emergencies, no attacks, no aliens or terrorists or anything out of the ordinary.

Pepper was in a board meeting in DC, leaving Stark alone essentially with the Avengers. Except they weren't here either. Natasha was on a mission (Stark assumed Barton had gone with her because he never knew when or if Barton went on missions, only ever Natasha, so he assumed half the time when Barton didn't make himself known that he'd tagged along as well). Thor was unaccounted for in Asgard. Steve was tagging along with Pepper for a memorial site-seeing tour of Washington, nothing as he remembered it. Banner had gone to see to some project involving his old friend, Selvigg.

Stark thought himself alone, until he strolled into the kitchen and jumped, his eyes locking on the back of the head of someone seated at the counter.

"Jarvis-" Stark yelled, but froze when the head turned around.

Barton.

"Jesus, Barton...I thought you were with Romanov, or whatever her name is this go around."

Clint eyed him like it was the most obvious thing. "She's on a mission."

"Well, that's my point, I thought-" He sighed, dropping the explanation of how the duo were inseparable before a further thought crossed his mind.

"What...exactly is between the two of you? I know, partnership and all, but, really..?"

Barton's expression never changed.

"Come on, this isn't confidential Shield information," Stark joked, half heartedly hoping it wasn't.

Barton rolled his shoulders back.

"Right, if it was, you would've hacked into it already and you wouldn't be asking me questions in the first place."

Stark shrugged. Guilty.

"I just-"

"Stark," Barton cut him off, before Stark could build momentum on his rant.

"Hm?" Stark jumped.

"I'm not saying this as an agent, or of Shield, or as anything other than a human being. From one man to another. Everyone has secrets and privacy and things they keep to themselves that others should just let leave."

Stark pursed his lips together, watching Barton speak evenly.

"So...there's something there, right?" Stark pried.

It was a quick flash, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, but Stark caught it, momentarily, as Barton pulled up from the counter.

"You don't trust me because you know so little about me."

Hitting the nail on the head, Stark tensed.

"But, I think it's the opposite. You should trust me, because you don't know enough about me. People should have secrets. It's people with no secrets that you shouldn't trust."

Stark thought on this, long after Barton turned away. Just as Barton exited the room, Stark flinched attentively.

"Wait-You're just saying that to pull attention away from the question at hand, which is, what is the relationship between yo-"

"Who are you yelling at, Stark?"

Stark yelped, not anything he is proud of, when Natasha spoke up, having just returned. Barton never did answer him, and Stark did his best it avoid Natasha for the rest of the day, fearful that she was overly capable of extracting what his question directed towards Agent Barton was.

That night, gathered around for take out dinner, Natasha questioned Stark once more.

"It's a thing between two guys, Nat." Barton responded, before Stark could so much as hiccup.

From that moment onward, Stark trusted Barton with his life.

* * *

As it would happen, there was a gift shop in the hospital. The DVD collection was on a small rack beside postcards and "Get Well Soon" notes. The selection was small, but Natasha managed to stare at it for a good half hour before finally being startled from her dazed position by an elderly man trying to reach the counter beside her.

Her fingers finally gripped the black rack, turning it slowly to scan over the covers and titles.

This whole mess was his fault and he was stupid and she promised to hit him to moment he woke up.

But, it didn't look like he would be up for at least a couple of hours more (if at all-she threw that thought from her mind). The nurse had finally pried her from beside him, told her to "walk out some nerves, shake out her muscles". The nurse insisted that Natasha go make a round about the hospital, in the halls. Give the doctors some room.

"Find a movie," She'd suggested, down at the gift shop. Something to play and watch as she waited for him to wake up (They had a TV in the room, courtesy of tax dollars to give the comatose something to listen to, she thought bitterly)

She wasn't even going to actually heed the nurse's advice, but somehow her feet had dragged her here. She should probably go check on the others, return to give them an update on Barton's condition if the nurse hadn't already-

And then she'd spotted the movie. That damn movie she'd refused the night Barton and her had been elected for a movie rental run. That damn movie that had sparked the inevitable conversation they'd yet to have. About love...

She was afraid to admit it, because that would make loss (Which, in their profession, was inevitable) that much harder. Not that she wouldn't already break if she lost him, but if she admitted _that_ to herself...

Or worse, to him?

It was pure irony that of all the romantic nonsense movies, he'd chosen this one. About love and how wrong it was and about loss.

_Titanic..._

God, she'd sock it to him so hard when he woke up, she thought as she threw some loose change at the cashier.

* * *

"How's Barton?" Stark demanded, stepping into the hospital with Thor at his heels. Timidly, Banner followed, his clothes having changed since last Steve saw him.

Steve didn't look so much as up from the floor, his fingers laced into a fist at his chin as he shrugged.

"I haven't seen or heard so much as anything since he was whisked away with his wife behind him-"

"His what?"

As if on cue, Natasha stepped out.

"I'm sorry, but I feel insulted. I wasn't invited to the wedding?" Stark gasped.

"I'll explain later," Natasha lied. It wasn't a story Clint was familiar with and she had no desire to relive the moment of panic she'd had with Fury. It was something she decided a long time ago for instances like these when authority was just too much of a hassle to threaten or deal with and necessity demanded she be by Clint's side. The nurses and paperwork be damned.

* * *

Stark hated chess. It was too much patience and thought and while, yes, he could defeat you within three moves, he nonetheless hated playing it. Sitting around and watching your opponent stare at tiny crafted pieces on a checkered board-it just wasn't his ideal pastime.

So, he avoided it, even as the wave of interest in the game swept over those in the tower.

It all began with Barton, which was surprising and yet not at the same time.

Barton was, believably, very good at chess. He had the patience and observance to spot moves well before even his opponent saw them, and he calculated quite well. Barton's games played out very neutral until the final stretch, where he'd pull out a string of victories and by the time you caught up to his strategy, he already had check mate.

Not to say his victories against anyone in the tower were ever easy.

Steve surprisingly was decent at the game, usually with a strategy of frontal charging. He'd put up a good enough fight, executing his moves well enough, and Stark gave him credit that he did know a thing about formations and battle strategy and playing to the strengths of your components.

But Barton always snuck up on him.

Banner indulged in chess the least, save for Stark, but rather enjoyed it. He always found Barton formidable and gave him the best run for his money. Banner was a gracious loser, always smiling and shaking Barton's hand after, and despite how silently the duo played the game, whenever Stark witnessed or watched it, the duo always appeared to thank each other like they'd just had some in depth conversation, played out in the silence of dragging each piece across the board.

Stark didn't understand it.

Thor at first was, expectedly, easy to beat. He didn't understand the rules and frequently had to be corrected on which pieces moved in what ways. However, once he picked up on the gist of the piece's movements, he was much more difficult. Like Steve, he had knowledge in battle formations and his upbringing as a future king didn't exactly leave his mind dull. Nonetheless, this was chess, not a battle, and his games didn't last very long. Not to say they were a walk in the park, but they were short.

Natasha actually appeared to give Barton the hardest time. Her methods usually resorted to cheating and emotional distraction. On anyone else, it worked flawlessly. On Barton, depending on his mood and whether he wanted to humor her or not, she rarely could rouse him with batted eyelashes or verbal gimmicks to distract his concentration (That being said, Steve was the easiest for Natasha to beat).

Still, Stark had once witnessed a true game between the two, where Natasha didn't try to distract Barton through verbal ticks and what not. It was a silent game that consisted of Barton starring at the board for nearly five minutes, before flickering his eyes up to Natasha, and some how coming to the silent agreement of a draw. The two had withdrawn from the game, exiting the room one after the other, leaving a baffled Stark as to what just transpired (He looked at the board; Barton had a clear victory in three moves, So some treaty of sorts had passed between the two that Stark doubted he'd ever understand, though he'd use to support his theory of their involvement with one another).

There even was an occasion where Barton played Pepper. Pepper held her own well enough, and they were pleasant throughout the game, but Barton naturally won.

Steve had offered to play against Stark on several occasions, to which Stark declined.

Banner had suggested a game once during a break from their formula concocting. Stark ignored it.

Thor boomingly request a game, and Stark politely waved it off.

Natasha snidely joked about Stark's inevitable loss, to which he shot back with some snide remark amongst thousands on her relationship with Barton.

Natasha punched him in the nose for it.

Barton, however, never once asked Stark. He might look up from a game or two, notice Stark watching intently as he played out his inevitable victory, and smirk. But, he never called the billionaire out on it or for a game, and it was left at that.

Until one day, Stark walked in on Barton playing virtually no one. The board was set, but he had no partner.

Stark swallowed his pride, and spoke up. "I'll play you."

Barton said nothing, merely waiting for Stark to settle in behind the row of white pieces.

"You're pretty good, I'll admit," Stark blurted, half way through the game with only two pawns left and a couple key players still unmoved. Barton propped his chin in his hand, eyeing the board.

"You don't play much," He countered, more a fact than a compliment. "Why's that?"

Stark frowned, "I'm not fond of others-" Barton knocked a knight into one of Stark's remaining pawns, "-taking my things."

Barton flashed a quick grin.

Exactly three minutes and twelve second later, Barton had won.

"I think...you're afraid of someone taking your queen."

Stark snorted.

"Straight to the point, are we?"

"Your whole defense was around protecting her. The moment you lost your queen, your king was vulnerable. That's the kind of strategy you had."

Stark looked unimpressed.

"Your strongest piece was also your weakness," Barton continued, philosophically as he placed each piece delicately back into the box set they'd come from.

Stark frowned.

"Isn't that only natural? You want to protect the most valuable asset. Pawns can be thrown away, that's why they're pawns."

Barton shrugged.

"Maybe."

Curious, Stark leaned against the wall, eyeing Barton.

"And how do you play?"

Barton smirked.

"Sacrifices have to be made. But, I don't tend to favor one piece above another. If they can all get the ob done, if any given piece can take out an opponents, aren't they all just as valuable?"

Stark snorted.

"You honestly believe that?"

Barton shrugged, his own smile dropping.

"Maybe."

* * *

_We came undone _

_We came undone _

_We came undone _

_We came undone_

* * *

Stark eyed Natasha, composed as ever as she leaned against the wall. Steve looked frozen, somewhere between terror and pain. Banner was a frigid ball of nerves, and even Thor looked shaken. Natasha, however, hardly broke a sweat, three hours into Barton's second surgery.

Finally, he snapped, anger boiling over.

"Don't you think you're being a little too heartless about all this? Isn't he your damn partner?"

"This is the repercussion that comes with our line of duty. We both knew what we were getting into the moment we became what we are."

"I don't remember hearing you had a choice," Banner uncharacteristically added, a hint of irritation in his voice. Natasha glared back.

"Barton did."

Steve said nothing, and Natasha knew it was because he, regrettably, knew exactly what she was talking about. But, he didn't agree with it any more than she did, except she did a better job at hiding her dissatisfaction.

"So, do you want us to go ahead and save your seat at the funeral or would that be too much trouble as well?"

She flared up at this, "He isn't dead, Stark!"

"Yet."

In an instant, Stark was on the ground, Natasha sprawled on top of him with her fists flying at his face. Steve yanked her off a second later, but not before Natasha got in a good hit tot he billionaire's nose, leaving a trickle of blood from it.

"Oh, so they did program emotions into your prototype. And here I thought Shield didn't have the technology."

"Shut it, Stark," Natasha warned. There was no point in hiding her emotions now-she'd already been compromised. She'd let Stark get to her, and there was no turning back now.

Of all the times, it had to be now that she finally snapped. She was already vulnerable and tense, apprehensive and to top it off Stark couldn't keep his damn mouth shut. She threw her glare to the wall, not wanting to face the others at that moment. Steve refused to let her go yet, however.

"You know, I always suspected you were somehow engineered to feel nothing, but I thought maybe I would've been wrong at least when the exception was Barton. I guess not even he means something to you-"

"Stark, enough," Steve warned.

"You think I don't feel a damn thing for Barton?" Natasha finally snapped, yanking herself free of Steve who let her go. Stark flinched as Natasha approached, but she didn't make to hit him so he held his ground.

"What good is crying and wailing going to do for him, though, huh?" She questioned, her eyes firm set on Stark as she spoke.

"It's not..." Her voice cracked, and like a wave rolling over, her shoulders dropped and her fingers twitched, an uncontrollable shiver shaking her body over. "He won't...just..."

Tony reacted just as she collapsed, catching her. Steve was by her side in an instant, and Banner was already directing the two to drop her in a seat. Thor stood by, alert and stiff, as they worked to lower Natasha into a chair.

"Natasha, calm down. Stay with us," Steve soothed, not sure how to handle the situation. Banner gripped at her hand.

"Hey, it's going to be alright, remember? Remember what you said, remember? You swore on your life that we'd get through this. Remember?"

She didn't respond to either of them. Stark ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

"Agent Romanov, if I was Agent Barton, right now, and I saw you like this, how'd you think I'd react?"

She jerked her head up to face him, the others following to pass questioning looks on where exactly Stark was going with this. First he patronized her, now he chided at her-

"As Tony Stark, I don't like to see you like this, but as Barton, it's probably just killing me inside. I'm...Well, I'm sorry about what I said," He muttered. "You're not heartless. We're all just..." Scared.

Scared to loose a piece, who willingly sacrificed himself to get his queen to safety.

Stark gritted his teeth.

All that talk about how each piece was valuable, and he'd gone and played just like Tony; he'd sacrificed a pawn, himself, for his queen. Because she's the most important...

"Son of a bitch," He mumbled softly, so Natasha wouldn't hear. He'd definitely have to have a talk with Barton when he woke up over chess strategy...

* * *

Barton woke up to Natasha sitting at his side. He smiled weakly at her, before noticing that they weren't alone. He eyed between the blurs of unmistakable figures.

"The whole gang, huh?" He coughed.

"Fury wouldn't fit," Stark joked dryly. Barton grimaced, turning back to Natasha, who was the only one close enough that he could make out clearly.

"Did we win?"

Natasha scowled, but Stark spoke before she could.

"Funny thing about that, you and me really need to play a game of chess sometime," Stark implied, leaning in accusingly at Barton. Clint suspected what Stark was talking about, but left it as a silent promise that they'd play once they got home.

Natasha looked less amused.

"Clint...don't you dare-"

"Where are we?"

Steve spoke up.

"The hospital. About six blocks from-"

"How'd we get here?"

"I drove," Steve beamed.

Barton looked to Natasha for conformation, who slowly nodded.

"Well, I'll be..." He coughed, slowly sitting up. "How long have I been out?"

"A day. The doctors insist you need to stay another week, at least."

Barton shook his head.

"That won't do." He winked at Thor, who was second closest other than Natasha.

"The Olympics start this week, big guy. Don't hate me, Cap, but when it comes to gymnastics...America is great and all, but have you seen the Japanese..?"

Thor smiled, nodding as he laughed half-heartedly. "I look forward to the viewing of the events with you, Barton."

Barton nodded slowly. "There's still archery," He mused, his eyes rolling back a bit as he slumped forward, Natasha catching him.

"You need to rest. Come on, Clint, get some sleep."

His hand weakly gripped at her arm as she set him back.

"You won't go anywhere, will you? You'll be here..?"

Banner began to shake his head, "Barton, we can't all stay-"

"-Yes." Natasha cut him off, running her thumb along his temple. "I'll be here, Clint, alright? Get some sleep."

Banner looked between Stark and Steve, "Can she..?"

Steve scoffed, shaking his head in warning to best leave that one at that.

Clint slurred, "I might need more than three days, this time, Nat..."

She smiled.

"Alright...how's four?"

He smiled just as he slipped back to sleep.

* * *

_We're hopeless, baby _

_We came undone, baby_

* * *

"You know how to diffuse a bomb?" Stark asked, skeptical as he dodged yet another heat seeking missile. These bastards were persistent, he noted.

Through the com, he could almost hear the frown Natasha was sending him for daring to doubt her partner. Barton seemed more amused as he chuckled (and though Stark missed it, tipped his head in a slight nod),

"It's come up in my profession once or twice. Secrets, remember, Stark?"

"Just take care of the decoys, we have the bomb covered," Natasha snapped, fidgeting despite herself from a little ways off from her partner. "Steve, how's the front line coming along?"

Her com link was answered with a grunt and the sound of a screech of tires.

"I still can't parallel park."

"Who can," Stark grumbled.

"Anyone seen Banner?"

There was a faint roar, and a quick answer from Thor, "He appears to be at my left." There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Natasha would have to discuss with Stark what all they taught the Thunder God; one teammate with a snarky habit was enough.

"Since I'm one wire cut away from blowing us both to smithereens, is now a bad time to confess I love you?"

Scratch that, two snarky asses.

"Barton, you're breaking up." Natasha dead panned. Clint was just a few yards away, well within view, and she made sure he had looked up, watching her, as she removed her ear piece momentarily to sell the joke. Even from this distance, she saw him wink.

"Ouch, Romanov," He winced, holding a hand to his chest, "Come on now, it's only been a few days since I was shot...like rubbing salt in the wound-"

"Whose fault is that?"

"Is this a couple's quarrel I hear?" Stark mocked through the comm. Natasha rolled her eyes and Barton turned his attention back to the wires.

"I hope this doesn't take all day...I'm missing the Opening Ceremony..."

Natasha puffed her cheeks out dramatically, feigning irritation as she set her hands on her hips.

"Excuse me, but wasn't it _our _movie we had to pause for this mission?"

Clint smiled.

"You're absolutely right. I'll have Jarvis record the Opening Ceremony. Which reminds me, we still need to have that talk..."

"I still owe you a good punch-"

Clint coughed.

"Right, we'll talk later. Quiet, Tasha, I need to concentrate, I've got a bomb here-"

He clearly saw her raise her middle finger at him. He smirked.

"I'm serious...about I'm in lo-"

"Later, Barton. The bomb?"

He sighed.

"You're impossible...I don't know any man who could ever marry you," He mumbled.

There was several coughs and "Eh-hms" through the com of the various members.

"What was that? Why did you guys all just-"

"Barton, _the bomb."_

* * *

**A/N: **With this song, I originally wanted it heavily from Natasha's POV, dealing with romantic feelings between her and Barton and denial and all that :p There's shades of it in some of the dialogue and flashbacks, I tried to squeeze it in, but for the most part that oncept was pushed aside because this story combined with pretty much another with the flashbacks and 'trust' segments between Barton and the other members (I really wanted to tie in the others in at least one of these fics, because so far most were just Natasha and Clint and the occasional third guest star)

Some interaction/flashbacks I really liked (I loved Steve's, with the car, I'd had that segment/idea typed up for awhile now and never knew where quite to squeeze it in with any story until I decided to mirror that daily itneraction between Clint and the others as well, sort of as parallelism). Tony's concept I originally liked, But in the end I was disappointed with how it turned out...Thor's was the same, too. The ideas were cute, but when I got to typing them, they just never ended and I went on and the end jsut doesn't sit well with me...

Banner's was a spur of the moment and I'm least satisfied with his :p It got too deep, too emotional for me :I

That final part wouldn't stop~! :p Originally, it ended at the line where Natasha 'breaks up' with him...then it extended to the 'opening ceremony'...then the rest of the conversation just kept getting added upon :p (I'm posting this now mostly to stop myself before I type a whole new ending :p)

Sorry if this chapter didn't flow very well, or if it's confusing with all the flip-betweens present and flashback...Maybe the next chapter I'll keep it all linear :p (Prlly not...I said the same thing about doing a more original, fluffy chapter awhile back, too :I) Also sorry for some of the concepts that are overused or cliche...or just poorly written :p Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter..?

(BTW, thank you all for your reaction to the last chapter! I really meant so much to me and I'm so thankful that you people still read these oneshots!)


	7. Stampede

Sorry it's been so long! So~ this story started as drabbles that I had no intention of ever piecing together to make a fic out of, months ago, and then maybe two weeks back it evolved and I thoguht what the hell-it's taken awhile to prep but I finally salvaged it to about as complete as I can make it :p

I won't pretend that I know much of anything as far as medical facts go-a lot of this is kinda loose intepretation,b ecause the mind is a tricky thing :p

Also on a random you-don't-care-note; I saw Bourne Legacy (Go Jeremy Renner!) and I have to admit, I never watched any of the Bournes until a few days before seeing Legacy (T_T) Coincidentally, I typed this whole story before I watched the Bournes; seemed fittig that I post it in the wake of Legacy I guess haha

Disclaimer: I own niether the characters nor the song-"Stampede by Sucre"

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Stampede_

* * *

_I'll never see you_

_I'll never see you_

_I'll never, ever see you again_

* * *

"Come here often?"

She pretends to jump, act like he's snuck up on her, but she's had her eyes and senses targeted on him since the moment she entered the hospital. She came for him.

"Not fond of these places myself," She nods around her, forcing a smile to encourage small talk. The fact that he's found her this time is enough. Already she feels like today is a good day.

"Me neither," He smirks, his eyes quickly dodging around her face, looking for some sign of recognition. A part of her jumps, waiting for him to say something, to realize everything, but instead he chuckles dryly and leans against the railing, turning away from her.

"You're visiting someone?"

She nods slowly.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but they must be pretty lucky, having you as a..?"

She hesitates, trying to decipher what to fill his blank with as much as he is. "Friend," she finally finishes.

"To have you as a friend," He repeats, smiling. She wants so bad to smile back but the corners of her lip won't upturn so instead she stares at him, breathless, waiting.

"Why's that?" She finally asks, because she wants to hear him say it.

He shrugs, nonchalantly, even though he can tell how obvious it is that she's fishing for a compliment. But, that's not the case.

"Because they have someone caring about them enough to visit them," He finally says, and there's not a hint of bitterness in his voice but the emotion is there, laced and intertwined. Her throat knots a little but she's as expressionless as ever. The tip of her tongue lashes out an apology but her voice instead comes out as, "If they were lucky, they wouldn't be here in the first place."

He shrugs at this.

"Not sure we share the same view on luck, then." They never have.

"Why's that? How do you perceive their luck?"

"Without knowing them? I'd say they're lucky to be alive, though I don't know how grave their incompatibility is. I'm just assuming, since you're at my end of the wing and the only few of us this far west are the trauma victims." He again shrugs like it's nothing.

"So, you think he...my friend, is lucky because he's alive?"

He nods hesitantly.

"I assume as much. He could be dead," He knows he's treading on thin ice, and he waits for her to flare up and lash out, but she doesn't. She continues to stare at him.

"How close is this friend to you?"

She smiles, and it's a sad smile. Not fake like the one she greeted him with.

"The closest."

He nods slowly, understanding.

"Well, don't let me keep you from him. Visiting hours are short enough," and he waves his departure, briskly approaching the impending nurses who have already caught sight of him.

"Nate! Nate, you can't walk out like that, it's not-"

Natasha pushes down her irritation that the nurse calls him by that, but without a last name, of course she goes by the only name he remembers.

"Nat..." He'd said. With his accent, of course they'd think he meant 'Nate'. She tries to smirk at the irony-he's taken up her name. But, she doesn't. Instead, she walks out the very entrance she came in from a minute ago.

He notices she doesn't make her way to any other visitors, and a part of him is hopeful that she really meant to see him. The same part of him that screams he knows those red locks, and that he's heard her voice call out names before, but never his, never this 'Nate'. Because as easy as 'Nat' comes to the tongue, it doesn't feel right hearing others call him that.

He wonders why he's been abandoned, and he wonders why he's just that damn good at escaping these nurses and these hospital rooms, and why heights make him feel comfortable when it makes everyone else nervous to see him standing at a ledge. And he wonders why he's only at peace when that mysterious woman comes by to visit a patient who doesn't exist.

* * *

"He could be dead," He adds, and she almost challenges him that he is. That the Clint Barton she knew died that night and the man before her is a shell, nothing more than a picture frame of who he used to be without the picture. And if she thought that revelation of his would kill her, she nearly topples over when he asks, "How close is this friend to you?"

A thousand answers fill her mind and a thousand scenarios to match them, but like an inside joke she merely smiles and mutters, "The closest."

When she eaves, just after he has too, she releases the breadth she never meant to hold and once she reaches the hall she's practically sprinting. She shouldn't be breaking down like she is-she should be able to hold it in, together, until at least she reaches Stark's tower, where she can collapse in the confines of her own room.

But, she can't make it there. Not this time.

Because hearing his voice and seeing his face and just knowing that it's him-but him not knowing that...

A nurse stops in the hallway, on her way to where Natasha just came from, and asks if she's alright.

"I-I'm fine," She stutters, and curses inwardly, again, for not holding it together.

Coulson was right-she became too involved with Barton. Damn him, for not stopping it when he had the chance, when he should have. Damn him for dying and leaving her alone.

Except he didn't leave her alone.

He left her with Clint.

"If you say so..." The nurse admits, but she doesn't believe it anymore than Natasha does. Still, she offers a sweet smile and Natasha mirrors the action in the closest way she can. She reads the nurses nametag and commits her face to memory. Lucy. A sweet blonde.

Natasha nods her head and brushes past Lucy. She walks home, composed and calm as ever She doesn't encounter any of the other fellow Avengers and she's thankful for that. She couldn't handle any banter from Stark, if he felt in the mood to offer any (Surprisingly, in the past few weeks, his humor had run dry and he kept most comments to himself; it was unnerving more than relieving, and Natasha almost wishes he would just crack a joke). Steve's innocent, sympathetic face would kill her just now.

Thor's apologies would send her over.

She tries not to think about the moment she reached the tower, only to be met with the unusual silence of the gathered team, save for one. She doesn't dwell on how Bruce had to tell her that an accident had occurred. That Clint had been involved and that they weren't sure where he was. It wasn't one of her prouder moments, storming in on Fury and be ushered away to be told that Fury was doing everything he could, and that Romanov needed to be patient and wait for further instruction involving how Shield would deal with this development. She spoke and saw no one else, and it was peculiar how everyone seemed so calm, like they had no idea that one of their elite was missing.

And she chooses not to even touch on the memory of hearing that he just got out of surgery at a local hospital, and that she can't see him. What hurts worse is she was told he just got out of surgery a week after he'd already woken from his coma.

The elevator dings open and she makes her way to her room.

The moment she's alone in her room, the door locked and closed, she knocks a lamp to the floor. It doesn't shatter but it snaps unplugged and suddenly the room is dark. She collapses against the wall and dry heaves because tears don't come but her body doesn't know that.

* * *

_And in my heart_

_I'm always feeling something_

* * *

Twice a week, she comes by. Every time she does, she walks straight through the entrance doors, exactly three minutes after two, and she walks directly to a chair that faces the doors, back to the rest of the ward. She sits there, back erect and her head looking straight in front of her. And she waits.

The first time he sees her, she catches his eye before she even made it to the chair, turns around, and walks straight out. She already looked to be having a bad day, and he himself had just recovered from surgery. That was a month ago, and as far as he was concerned, that was when his life had begun.

He only remembers glimpses and flashes of memories, like silent movies playing in his head, and he can form words but everything sounds foreign to him.

The nurses were confident that once he woke up from surgery, he'd properly identify himself and they'd have an identity on him, a name and possibly an emergency contact. Strangely enough, he appeared to have come from no where. No files, no records. The nurses only had a single name to go by when he woke up, but even after they reminded him of it, he couldn't recall ever giving them a name.

"Nate", they call him. He tries it a few times on his tongue and it sounds familiar, he's just not sure if it's his name. But, he has nothing else to go by so he just nods his head and now he's "Nate".

A week goes by and the nurses convince him that somewhere, someone is out there, looking for him. They're confident he'll be claimed (like lost luggage) within the week.

A month later, he sits in a ward, the west wing for trauma victims, and watches the beautiful woman with red hair walk in, cry, and walk out.

She returns a week later and this time doesn't seem to notice him, making her way to her seat. She sits there for an hour, perfectly rigid save for her fingers that twitch nervously. After an hour, she stands up and walks out. This continues on for two weeks, twice a week, and finally he approaches her.

And when she leaves, he's convinced it's him she's waiting for. Because it's been three weeks and he's never seen her speak to anyone but him.

* * *

He confronts her after that. Nearly a month after that, actually. He doesn't admit that those visiting hours are his favorite, not because he's afraid she'll freak out, but because something tells him those days are the worst for her. He doesn't exactly thrive in the idea that the most pleasure for him is what kills her, and this only further cements his theory that she's here for him.

She doesn't look surprised when he asks her, and she's quiet for a long time before she attempts to half-heartedly deny as much.

"What makes you think I come here for-"

"I watch you from the moment you come in. You sit and wait, and then I talk to you, and the moment I'm gone, you leave. You haven't stepped a foot beyond the waiting room, and you haven't so much as spoken to a nurse or patient other than me."

He's confident, she notes. Good to know that trait was as embedded in him as his eye color, because it'd be such a loss if that was all for show.

"You caught me." She finally smirks, and it's bitter because she knows what he'll say next. He'll demand questions she can't answer and he'll throw a tantrum she can't calm. She can't do anything, except watch the medical staff hoist him at bay and pull him to be bound in his room, home bound. And the visits will have to stop.

Instead, he leans back and smiles to himself, only his smile is a bitterly happy one while hers is just bitter.

"You're not-"

"What?"

She only hesitates momentarily.

"You're not going to ask who I am? Who you are, why you're here, why this is happening..?"

He quirks an eyebrow, like it never occurred to him that he wasn't simply born and raised here and never has had any inclinations to the world outside these white, windowless walls. Finally, he cracks another half smile and shrugs again and she wants to punch him for not caring.

"I have a name-"

"That's not your name," she briskly retorts, and she feels and hears tears brimming but she chokes them back.

"-and my reasons," He finishes, looking at her in an odd twist of amusement, "And so do you."

Her breathing is heavier and she's tensed but she says nothing. Finally, she looks away, because she can't hide her guilt.

"Don't you want to know who I am? Don't you want to know how I know so much about you, and why I haven't said anything. Why I've left you here, without so much as your own goddamn name-" Like a confession, her sins and guilt come rolling off the tongue and he just stares at her, his face giving away nothing.

"No."

"No?" She sounds exasperated.

"Because that ends the game."

"Game? What game?" She keeps her voice in check because if she raises it too much or if she's too distrusted, they'll pull him away from her. He shrugs like it's obvious.

"The game that I'm so close to winning. Where I remember your name and who you are to me and why you still lie and smile when what you clearly want to do is yell and hit me. Because I really am so close to remembering, I know it. It's at the tip of my tongue-"

She shakes her head, because this is all wrong.

"Don't you want to know your name? Who you are? Where you're from-"

"-I want to know what's important," he leans back, relaxing just as she tenses up further. He looks content as he just watches her, waiting for her response. She doesn't have one, so she stands up abruptly, trying to decide whether to give him a final look or not, and deciding she isn't brave enough for that.

Then she leaves.

"Nate? Is everything alright?"

He hesitates a moment, because Nate isn't his name and he isn't sure if the nurse is talking to him, or why. Finally, he nods and stands and makes his way to arts and crafts_._

* * *

_You got away_

_You got away_

_You run away_

_Oh, you're like a stampede in the dark_

* * *

Natasha settles in to sleep at night, but as her mind drifts off, wandering through memories and mistakes, she finds herself reliving the moment she landed stateside, demanding Barton's location only to be met with pitiful eyes and silence.

Sometimes the dream mixes and Loki is present, even if he had no hand in Barton's predicament now. Sometimes her mind throws in scenarios yet to happen, fast forwards to a future where Barton doesn't recognize her, starring at her with those icy blue eyes that still haunt her, though she would lie and tell Barton they didn't.

She jolts awake and decides that sleep just isn't going to come to her. She'll train a bit and tire herself out, then fall back onto the lazier insomnia approach; late TV land reruns. The channels are mostly promotionals and eventually she gives up on television until she reaches the movie channels.

It's her luck that there's only a choice between the same six or so movies, half being psychotic thrillers on low budgets and the others being sappy love stories that are more about testing temperaments than testing love (Then again, they're probably the same thing)

She flips a coin and settles for the sappy love story, because she recognizes the actress and that already is plus in comparison to the poor scripting of the lifetime movies.

Ten minutes in and she evaluates that one of the main couple is terminally battling for their life and the other is spewing words that in context are harsher than they mean them to be. The movie reaches the climax, where the couple split and one walks away and for a minute she's almost emotionally involved and her mind screams that it shouldn't end this way, they can't give up.

Just stay and stick it through, just try to make it work.

She nearly throws the remote at the screen when it dawns on her, but then she remembers that this is Stark's TV and while she could care less about his property, she doesn't want to explain herself or her actions (Not that she even would have to, but it still settles her mind when she opts to just turn the screen off instead). She abruptly stands up and retreats to her room to attempt at sleep once again.

That morning, Steve comments on how Natasha looks like she got no sleep last night, and rather than challenge his 'observation', she simply growls at him. That silences him, but it also confirms him.

* * *

She doesn't come that Thursday but she comes Tuesday, exactly one week after their conversation. She's as composed and pretty as ever, dawned up in make up and a suit and she's never looked more unfamiliar to him, even though she wore those same shoes last time, too. Her hair is pinned and curled and unnatural and he doesn't recognize her at first. Except those eyes. He knows those eyes.

"Ask me." She demands, because it's killing her. He blinks, then smirks and sits down, offering her some water that he doesn't possess (the fountain is in the hall). She declines his offer by not responding.

"Ask me anything. About you, about me." She tries again. He thinks for a moment, and finally, to satisfy her, he asks without really caring, "What's my name?"

"Adam Hart." She responds without a moment's hesitation. He blinks.

"And yours?"

"Lucille Dodgers, but you called me Lucy."

He nods slowly, like it's all coming back to him when it's not.

"How do we know each other?"

"Childhood friends."

He almost laughs out loud at this.

"And what do we do for a living?"

She catches that he asks 'we', as though he assumes they work together, but she reasons he's merely combining two questions in one because he's more interested in hearing about her than him.

"You're an accountant for a bank. I work at a law firm, in the city."

He doesn't speak for another minute, finally responding, "Do I have any pets?"

She blinks, "No."

He smirks. "Probably should have asked if I have any family first, huh?"

For a moment, he's terrified she'll tell him he's married with a wife and kids waiting at home for him.

"Your father passed away six years ago. Your Mother just last winter. You spoke at her funeral, it was a lovely eulogy." She says it all so quick and heartless that he almost believes her.

"No girlfriends?"

Her knuckles turn white, "Your last relationship ended six months prior to the accident. I wasn't able to get a hold of her. Her name was Madison."

He nods, and finally it's too much and he bursts out laughing.

"What's so funny?" She asks, characteristically hollow sounding.

He shakes his head.

"Lucy, was it? Or Miss Dodgers?"

She nods, "That's correct."

"No it's not."

She says nothing, and he nods towards the nurse standing at the counter in the other room through the glass window.

"That nurse over there, her name is Lucy."

"It's a common name-"

"It's a poor cover," He cuts her off. Briefly, there's a flicker of her holding her breadth, but finally she spits out, "Adam, you're confused."

"Don't call me that."

"Adam..."

"That's not my name."

"Nate-"

"That's not it either!"

And finally he's angry, like she's always wanted. She leans back and he's standing and hospital personnel and approaching, concerned.

"Is it, Nat? That's not my name, right, Nat?" He doesn't even know what he's screaming, or at who, but when he sees her jump he realizes that he isn't 'Nate' or 'Nat'. She is. And when she brushes past him, crying, and the guards restrain him, he all but falls to his knees as realization dawns on him.

* * *

_You got away_

_You got away_

_You run away_

_Oh, you're like a stampede in the dark_

* * *

"Then get someone else to do it!" She snaps.

She wants off this mission, but no one seems to be understanding that. No one is listening to her. Fury just stares at her with his one good eye, like he sees through everything she's saying, but she ignores it. Hill is unreadable as well, but everyone else is twenty years too early on training to hide their emotions and she sees the pity bright and clear on their faces.

"This is a mission, Romanov, one that you have been assigned to-"

"I don't care!" She finally blurts, because she's already argued a hundred times over her best points and now she's just desperate for someone to hear her. For someone to take that pity on her and say, "Alright, Agent Bridge will take care of it from now on."

Agent Bridge is in Taiwan.

"You know damn well why you were chosen for this-"

"You think he's going to come back!" And now she's exasperated, because she feels exactly the same as they do. She hopes for the same miracle they all want. That if it's her, if she's the one, then he'll remember, he'll come back. He's too good an agent to loose and their only hope lies with her.

But it's not working that way, and it's taking more of a toll on her than him. She has to see him, twice a week, and all she can think is who he was to them, is to her, but she only sees who he is now, in person. Confused and forgotten and normal. He's not supposed to be but he is, and it's killing her as much as it kills him.

"Natasha-" Fury's voice has lowered and for a second it sounds like Coulson. Coulson would have known what to do, he would have talked sense into Fury. He would have explained to him that this was a lost cause, that they needed to move on because Barton was gone, and he would have released Natasha from this mission weeks ago.

Agent Coulson is dead.

"Natasha..." Fury tries again, "Give it some time. He's showing progress, there is a chance-"

"There is none! What's wrong with you?! Why can't you just accept it! He's-"

Worse than dead. He's forgotten. Forgotten everything, forgotten his life and memories and her. He doesn't even know his own name-

"Agent Romanov, this discussion is over. You will continue your observation and report. You will continue aiding Agent Barton's recovery of his memory, and you will do so because he's not lost. Not yet."

She flickers between the others present in the room and sees the dying hope in their eyes. Is she the only one who sees the truth? Reality? That it's hopeless?

She has nothing less to argue, because she can't believe everyone, so she storms off. She runs out, and she desperately wants to find Barton and spar with him, to breakdown and actually complain about Fury about how unfair everything is because for the first time she feels she can't hold everything in or accept things. But Barton isn't here.

Agent Barton is now "Nate".

"Why me?!" She finally whines, exasperated. She'd had her fair share of the world being fucked up, but this had to top it all. Every shot-up situation and world-to-hell experience she'd been through, and this surpassed them all.

"Because I trust you," Fury emphasized, more annoyed than understanding. Natasha tried to glare at him but it had little effect on the unshakeable man that he was.

"Because I don't know how many Agents I have left whose loyalty lie with me rather than the Council. Shield is divided at this point and I'm hanging on to the position of Director by the skin of my teeth, after I threw my neck on the line all because I had a slither of hope in you and Agent Barton and the Initiative! And I'm paying for that breach in protocol now. I chose you because you don't have loyalty to me, to the Council, to shield-any of it. Your loyalty is to Barton, and I owe it to Barton and even to Coulson to do everything I can to delay the Council's finding out of Barton. And that means I have to turn to you, the only Agent I can trust to do so."

"What?" She hissed.

"The Council is not aware of Barton's condition. As far as they're concerned, he's currently on a covert mission currently being performed by Hill herself. And when that little stall of ours runs out, Agent Barton will be pronounced "MIA". Why do you think we haven't extracted Barton under our care? Left him in the hands of civilians, hidden and undisturbed? Protocol says that due to his current predicament, he is no better than a defector and must be dealt with as such. That is why you have to do this. You have the standard issued allotted time of any recon mission for any standard MIA case."

He began to turn around, pausing, "Unless, that is, you'd rather let Barton live out his life in oblivion. Or be found out by the Council and dealt with as appropriately. It's your choice."

Maybe it'd be better if she did leave it at that-let him live a normal life. A second chance to actually live.

* * *

_In the dark_

_In the dark_

_In the dark_

* * *

_His focus is trained between her green eyes and she's glaring up at him, all but defeated sprawled on the floor and pinned into a corner. She's wounded and worn and he's only a little better off and after the most grueling fight and chase that he's experienced since joining Shield, it's come down to this last moment, to the final strike. _

_There's a tension in his fingers, a sense of power and it's unfamiliar to him-whatever he's holding-but it's drawn and he feels the strain in his fingers and knows that whatever he holds is just a twitch away from sending her to her maker._

_There's throbbing in his chest, his throat, his leg. He can't identify which is which; adrenaline, pain, a subdued scream. There's sweat beading down his neck but he ignores that too, because at this moment all that matters is that he doesn't take his eyes or attention off of those green eyes._

_Her lips quiver ever so slightly-the first time he's seen her show fear that may just be genuine if he fell for it, and then she says something but he can't make out her words. But whoever it is she said, or more accurately asked, he responded somehow, smirking and replying,_

_"I'm making a different call."_

* * *

He jolts awake from the dream and reaches for something not by his side. He's perplexed, because he swears that those green eyes are familiar, that they belonged to the girl who visits him, to "Lucy", even if in his dream she looked much younger and her hair was a different color and length and she looked more frail, more ravaged. This dream is different, not because of how real it felt, like it was a memory (Because all his dreams as of late feel so real, like he's reliving some time or other) but because for once it's not a nightmare. It's a pleasant dream, because everything felt so familiar and yet comfortable. His finger twitches from the ghost of a feeling of holding that bow and arrow and without thinking much of it, his elbow props itself up to create a pose. Muscle memory, he thinks.

The word "shield" rolls off his tongue as a whisper but he pushes it aside because it doesn't seem significant. Instead he drops his face into his hands and tries to clear his head of those green eyes.

Most of his dreams are horrors filled with blood and death and things that he knows he shouldn't tell the psyches, because then they'd really sign him off as crazy.

He sees face and horrors and demons and none of it makes sense to him and he probably should write it off as just nightmares, but something tells him it's more than that. Something tells him he's lived through each of those dreams. That that child's blood really did run on his hands, or that the suffocating feeling of drowning isn't just a figment of his imagination being too realistic for comfort.

The morning after that particular dream, of drowning, he fills a sink in the bathroom and submerges his head underneath. Just to see. A nurse walks in on him three minutes into his timing and pulls him out, causing quite a scare amongst the staff. He isn't all that phased because he knows he wasn't trying to commit suicide.

He could have lasted two, maybe three more minutes, he assures himself.

Different things act as triggers. He quickly realizes that he is, in fact, not normal. That his case is beyond simply some freak accident involving some blunt force, a hit and run with no witnesses. He remembers light, for one thing, and the doctors have insisted that the attack took place within an hour of his arrival at the hospital-which was in the dead of night.

But he doesn't contemplate on the fuzzy, hazy memories because he's too busy paying attention to the present. Like when a nurse approaches from behind, trying to stay quiet to not upset the other patients, and this sets him off like she's trying to sneak up on him. And when the doctor approaches with a needle, he isn't sure how or why he suddenly finds himself pinning the white coat to the floor. He fights the restrainers, briefly, until it dawns on him that he's fighting them. That he's actually punching and kicking and tripping the staff around and he doesn't even understand why, or how.

Then there's noises. When an AC unit blows, the sounds echoing like a gun shot, he's instantly whips around, reaching for nothing at his side. His mind reacts, instantly scouting for targets and he's gone into a complete survival mode. He doesn't even recognize himself.

Nurses stare at him like he's a murderer and with the moves he possesses, he thinks he is too.

* * *

Since he's in this ward and everyone looks at him like he's crazy, he begins to believe it. So, he sees nothing wrong with blurting the first question on his mind when the girl in red visits him again the next week.

"Have I ever killed someone?"

Natasha finds herself back in the room on the Helicarrier, where an honest and not-Loki-influenced Clint looked at her and sincerely demanded the number of Agents, of comrades, he'd killed.

Just like then, she saw the guilt in his face and the desire, the need, to know the answer. She couldn't lie to that face.

"Why do you ask?"

But she could avoid giving an answer.

He doesn't respond immediately, but then he does something unexpected. He reaches out at her, lashing with a fist, and instantly, before she can even begin to be horrified that he's attacking her, she throws up a forearm to deflect him. But he counters and suddenly they've both jumped up from their chairs and all eyes have turned to them because she narrowly almost pulled her concealed gun on him from her purse and he's toying with the idea of revealing the scalpel he's tucked in his jean pockets, having swiped it from an attending doctor's clipboard.

She doesn't say anything, finally stepping back just as the ward staff run over to her. She insists their fine, but he says nothing and doesn't argue when the men try to pry him towards the doors, towards medications. She sees his fist clench, like he's holding back the urge to defend himself, but he lets himself be taken away.

Because without saying anything, she confirmed his suspicions. Answered his question.

* * *

They give him medication which he pops in his mouth but only pretends to swallow. The moment he's clear, he spits it out. He knows he's sane of mind, he doesn't need tranquilizers to cure him of his 'afflicted rage'. He does, however, regret the decision when the nightmares start up again.

After the third night in a row of dreams of carnage and blood and fires and unimaginable horrors that feel more like memories than dreams, he gives up on sleep altogether and stakes out in the lobby, while no one watches. He knows where the camera's eyes don't reach and he perches in those spots for hours, just sitting and contemplating everything he knows and has been told and what doesn't add up between the two.

Everything is so close to making sense to him, and yet nothing does He rubs his eyes and decides he needs more air. e doesn't even bother contemplating just how he knew how to pick a lock, but in roughly three minutes he's on the roof, a restricted area, and he's sitting with his feet dangling at the ledge, pondering if he pushed himself forward just an inch or two if that'd all just be easier.

A janitor spots and reports him a few hours later and nurses coax him back to his room, warning him that he'll loose time during music hour for his behavior as of late.

Oh darn.

* * *

Natasha sighs, looking at the pale face in the mirror before her. She has to cake on more blush than she would like, to bring color back into her cheeks. More foundation under the eyes to even out the circles. Heavier liquid liner so her eyes look wider, brighter.

She's used to wearing make up, with all the operations and missions she's taken on as she infiltrates embassies and paints her mask. She's a beautiful woman and make-up just makes her look ethereal. She wears it when she's seducing corrupt men or manipulating boys with guns. She applies make up when she'd dealing with strangers.

She never had to wear make-up with Barton. Mascara would run when they'd dive into rivers, to avoid the hail of gunfire chasing them down Venice. Foundation mingles with sweat and clogs her pores and face while she sits on a stakeout, her sniper trained on the only window of the safe house while Barton takes his turn to sleep.

Barton was the one person she could let her guard down with, not have to dawn make up on to act a part.

Natasha twists the tube of red lipstick, applying a thick line to her bottom lip and smacking the color evenly amongst her lips before snatching her purse and heels, making her way to the elevator.

* * *

"Nate" yawns, his eyes scanning across the room, waiting for the doors to open. The moment they do, he jerks upright.

It's just the Nurse, Lucy.

He continues to follow her, watching to see whether he's her next victim, but it turns out to be a patient named Lloyd, who Nate has only spoken to once since being at the ward. Lloyd seems to be in fine health, until he blanks and forgets even who he is. He'll throw fits, and suddenly be perfectly fine and hold a conversation about his uninterrupted attendance of 40 plus years as a school bus driver.

He likes Lloyd, the old man.

The doors open again and this time it's Ms. Nelson, with her separated husband Mr. Nelson in tow behind her. They're visiting their son, who after a traumatic car crash is paralyzed and hasn't spoken more than three words since Nate's been here. His parents divorced years before the accident, but they've become closer since it, visiting together in hopes that a more complete family will better appeal to their son and just might make living worth while for him. They haven't argued in over four months and they actually support each other, now.

Mr. Nelson is going to ask Ms. Nelson on a second first date that afternoon.

Finally, the door opens and in she walks. She looks frantic and briskly looks for him, spots him, and makes her way towards him. He smiles in a warm greeting at her, but her smile is so forced and painful that he drops his own and doesn't bother to pretend like he fell for it.

"What's wrong?" She asks suddenly, and she seems to be looking extra hard at him, like she'll find something in his eyes if she looks long and hard enough.

He gives nothing away, and merely shakes his head.

"Nothing."

She nods, somberly, and sits down.

"I thought I'd bring some things from your place, maybe help you remember-"

"Alright," He cuts her off, because he's curious to see what she's brought. She rummages through her purse and produces a small snow globe.

"Your father gave you this, when you were, I think, eight? You'd gone skiing in Colorado, remember? And this-" She pulls out a picture frame, recently polished but obviously still worn and old, as much as the picture inside it was gradiated, "is a picture of you and your dog, when you were twelve."

The kid is cute, the dog more so, and he raises a brow at her.

"Is that all?"

She jumps a bit, searching through her purse some more. He catches a glimpse of a handheld hidden in it, but says nothing. She pulls out a candy bar.

"This is your favorite candy. I snuck it in here, I'm not sure how the nurses feel about outside food and your diet-" She offers the candy, but he hesitates to take it. Finally, he sighs and relieves her of the candy, turning the wrapped over in his hands, staring at it.

"Is anything coming back...? At all?" She asks, hopefully.

"Why are you doing this?" He mutters, so low that she doesn't catch all of it.

"Excuse me?"

He sits up and snatches at the snow globe.

"My dad never took me anywhere. I don't think I've ever been to Colorado..." He pauses, "But I have skied before." He looks at her, but her face has hardened again and she won't give him any clues, any hints. He sighs.

"And-" He picks up the frame. "This isn't me. This isn't my dog. I never had a dog. I never had a house with carpet," He points at the background of the picture, "and at twelve, I didn't even have a house!" She looks startled when he says that, and even he isn't sure how he knows that. Suddenly he wants to ask if his father ever took him to the circus, because he remembers going there, but he knows he wasn't lying when he said his father never took him anywhere. For good measure, he almost adds his father never gave him anything but stops because a pulsing in the side of his head reminds him that his father did in fact.

"And," He motions the candy bar.

"I'm not sure if this is my favorite or not, but I'm taking it all the same."

He rips the wrapper open and takes a bite of the chocolate. It's stale and has nuts and he's almost positive it's not his favorite.

"Why are you doing this?" He finally asks, bewilderment and even anger seeping into his tone. She doesn't move.

"These fake memories...Lies...Are you trying to help me, or..? Are you feeding me these fake past lives because you're hoping I'll believe them? Why? What are you doing-"

"Nate-"

"My name isn't Nate."

She winces. Not this again.

"Please, just-"

"You wanted me to ask you who I was. You were so adamant on me getting all the answers I could from you. At first I thought because maybe it was killing you more than me that I don't remember who I am," That hit a nerve, he noted when she ever so slightly flinched, "But now I think you just wanted me to hurry up and ask, to want to believe in you, so you could feed me these false lies and be done with me. If you're in such a rush to abandon me, which you already did, then why bother showing up still?"

The accusations he makes pierce her and his voice has raised. The nurses already were watching him carefully and all they need is for the girl to burst into tears as their cue to subdue him.

But, she doesn't. Instead, she slowly nods.

"You're right," but he already knew that. "And you have been to Colorado," her voice sounds scratchy so she coughs to clear it, her eyes looking anywhere but at him.

"You're not allergic, but you don't care much for nuts. You prefer something with a lot more sugar," she smirks, and that he does believe.

They don't say anything and the staff wise up enough to come between them, ushering "Miss Rushman", he catches, out as visiting hours have expired and "Nate" needs his medication. The woman nods and never looks as him as she leaves, but he can't take his eyes off her.

* * *

Lloyd is talking to Andrea, another nurse who fears Clint with a passion (He can tell by the way she looks at him), retelling a story about how he once stopped a school bus to the side of the road to let some drunkard pass, reporting him on his emergency line so some local cop could take the creep off the road at eleven in the morning. Clint is listening from across the hall, sitting perfectly still in his chair with a scowl present on his face, though he doesn't mean it.

Today the psych started the session like he always did-useless questions about health and feeble attempts to conjure up any past memories. Curiously enough, the doctor mentioned the green-eyed girl.

"I hear you've been speaking to a visitor."

He bets it was Andrea, that damn gossip. No, it's probably his job to be alerted of any development in his patient's behavior or routine.

"Is she a friend?"

Clint shrugs, because to be honest he's not even sure. Then he smiles and thinks to what she said the first time they spoke (That he knows of). She'd called him a friend then, hadn't she?

Now that he mentions it, she did say they' been 'the closest'.

"I guess," he responds, like a disgruntled teenager.

"What's her name?" The doctor asks, looking through his clipboard because he genuinely doesn't know.

Clint can't help himself and smiles.

"I think Lucy called her 'Miss Rushman'."

The doc looks up from his papers.

Clint just shrugs. It's not like she ever gave him her real name. Even if he does have a pretty good guess of what it is.

* * *

"You're Nat, aren't you?" He asks bluntly when they meet again a week after her last visit. She immediately looks on edge but nods slowly. Realizing he won't take bullshit answers anymore, this conversation looks to be headed in a direction that they've avoided. An honest one. No more dancing around the topic.

For a moment he doesn't know what to follow up with, so he reaches for his back pocket and produces a folded piece of paper.

"Arts and Crafts hour, they had us making Valentines. That holiday is coming up, isn't it?" It passed two days ago. "We were supposed to make a Valentine for someone-a visitor, or a staff member. I originally thought to give this to Lucy, because she sneaks M&M's in with my medication when I don't act up that day, but I thought you might appreciate something also, given as how you waste two days a week on me with what must be the most uncomfortable hour for you."

She doesn't deny it, her eyes trailing the paper as he hands it to her.

"I don't have any talent for art," he chuckles, "But Cindy, that's the volunteer who runs arts and crafts, kept nagging me to just 'reach deep inside' and draw something 'of my self conscious'. To me, it sort of looks like a map...Cindy says the splashes of red are abstract, but I don't..."

He trails off because she isn't paying attention to him anymore. The picture itself is a blur of blues and grays, with lines running interconnectedly and the shape of it all is a peculiar polygon. There are three red dots splattered meticulously on the paper, small blurs that stand out against the cool back ground. He doesn't quite get what it means-he's no art or dream interpreter. But it's the image he saw and it stood so vividly out in his mind. Like he'd memorized it.

Natasha holds back a chortled laugh, because it is in fact a map. Of Baltimore. Some streets are inaccurate, but she recognizes the landmarks and she knows this pattern They'd both spent a week overlooking the map, memorizing every escape and entry point and learning the map inside and out. The dots through her a bit, because she only recalls one target on that particular mission, but then she remembers that he had set up at least three vantage points, in case their target tried to run. She recognizes the dots to represent the roof of a motel and the penthouse of an apartment, and the attic of a store complex with a coffee shop on the ground floor.

It's just the kind of twisted valentine she'd expect from an assassin, from him. No 'roses are red' poems or heartfelt messages with floral decorations adorning the spine of the card. It was a target map, a visual belonging to a mission. And it was perfect.

"Thank you," she remarks earnestly. After another pause, she adds, "Natasha." He looks up at her, and she smiles at him. It's not forced, not even a bitter smile. It's a little sad but there is true happiness behind it and he barely whispers out "Natasha" on his lips, and it sounds perfect and feels right.

Breaking some of the tension with that, he leans back, turning his attention towards the nurses before asking, "What's my real name?"

She shouldn't, but she smirks.

"I thought you wanted to figure it out yourself? A game, wasn't it?"

He shrugs.

"I figured I guessed one thing right, I earned the other. It's a game of exchange."

She frowns.

"You guessed my name."

"So I deserve mine."

It takes her longer than it should, but finally she answers, "Clint."

He nods his head because that makes sense.

Finally, he scrunches his nose and asks, seemingly out of nowhere, "Do I know Russian?"

This causes her to laugh out loud, but she answers just as quickly, "Yes. How did you..?"

"I'm not sure. I was thinking, and all of a sudden it hit me that I wasn't thinking in English...How do I know Russian?"

An answer for an answer. She smiled, "It was part of your job description."

He could ask her about that, but he seems satisfied, or in any case bewildered, that he knows Russian. He seems lost in thought and occasionally his face changed to express surprise, and she figured he was discovering a whole lot more than Russian.

She shouldn't be as surprised as she is when it happens, catching her off guard, but she's let that slip and her own memory is drifting away to some long since mission in Moscow when he suddenly dropped his head into his lap, rubbing his forehead as his eyes shut tight. She thought little of it until he started shaking, and then without warning convulsing. Shivers ran up and down him and an uncharacteristic whimpers escaped him.

In an instant, the mood had died and suddenly he was shouting. Barking, he seemed to be spitting vile at her.

"Is that so?! Is that what you think?"

By his side instantly were the attendants, restraining him to the chair. Natasha had gripped the arms of the chair, watching in horror without the ability to turn away. Here was Clint, looking so weak and vulnerable before her. She'd never seen this side of him, and right now it was playing out before her. He lashed just outside of the nurse's grip, his fist almost reaching her. She didn't flinch away, didn't move.

And then he froze, as recognition reached him. This was Natasha, Nat, he was trying to reach. To hit.

For a moment, she searched his eyes for that electric blue, just as foreign and unfamiliar to him as he was now without his memory.

All she found was empty eyes, unable to register just what he was doing.

Clint was hauled away, again no longer resisting the doctors but desperately wanting to.

Natasha didn't realize she had been crying, reaching up to wipe away the tear tracks, only to realize what was crumpled in her hand was not a tissue. It was Clint's valentine.

* * *

_In the dark_

_In the dark_

_In the dark_

* * *

The Ward itself all takes place on one floor of the hospital. There are no windows except in the lobby, which he's only allowed in during visitor hours but manages to escape to at least once a day. He hates that there are no windows in the rooms at the back of the ward, but he understands the precautions that the hospital has to take. His days consist of a rotation of music hour and arts and crafts. He begins his mornings waiting in line for medications followed by a visit of the shrink.

The meals taste like paper, but he has a handful of skittles that he'd saved from medication this morning, which Lucy had snuck in for him (He mentioned the other day how, while he appreciate the M&M's with nuts in them, he liked skittles more, or at least he guessed he did; Lucy saw to it that the candy exchange was upgraded, and as he popped a green skittle into his mouth, he confirmed that he liked skittles more).

Lights out is at nine for the better-off patients, and while you're not required up at an exact hour (This isn't the military) it is recommended to be up at least by eleven, else you'll miss the breakfast served.

Clint, because that's his name, goes to bed at nine like everyone else, then slips up onto the roof roughly an hour or two later. He slips back into his room around 4 and on good nights he'll find sleep for two or even four hours. While on the roof, he either finds himself standing a the ledge, just watching the city go by, or he works out. It doesn't occur to him the first few weeks why he feels so sore or tight, but the moment the idea occurs to him to try a push up or two and suddenly things fit into place. His fingers still itch to feel something between them, his muscles anticipating something he can't quite put his finger on, but he finds some comfort in what little wok out he can produce while on the roof.

He really wishes he could go for a proper jog.

At dinner, he sits by Lloyd because occasionally the old man will tell a story that Clint hasn't heard a hundred times over, and as of late even the Nelson's boy has started joining them, though he says nothing and simply stares at the excuse of a meal. Clint offers Nelson one of his skittles and the boy's mouth twitches, like he's about to smile.

Across the room, Angie has started spasming again so the other patients are ushered from the cafeteria. Clint doesn't mind, he was already finished with his meal anyway.

The phone is open for anyone to make a call, though it's an unwritten rule, a courtesy, that you spend no more than thirty minutes because others need to use the phone as well.

Aside from Nelson, Clint is the only person who never uses the phone. Lloyd is usually right of mind enough to call his family, and even when he's not they're patient enough to listen to him anyway.

Nelson's parents tried calling him, before Clint had arrived (Lucy told him), but Nelson never spoke on the other line, so they stuck to in person conversations only. Clint watches Nelson sit mindlessly on a couch. It's not that he's damaged, so much as he's unmotivated, unwilling. The trauma eats away at him and he's broken down once or twice, but he never says a word.

Lucy is a nurse, a pretty girl with blonde hair and a short demeanor. Clint has never seen her outside of scrubs, but can tell by her calves that she's the type who wear heels frequently to try to give herself the height she was deprived of at birth. When he saw her, she had hair down to her waist and was dating a mechanic. This was when he'd first woken from his coma and she was the first nurse to positively inform him that he'd be claimed n a week or so. Two weeks later, she came into work with a bruise around her eye and long sleeves under her bright scrubs.

It didn't take a genius to piece two and two together when another nurse asked Lucy how she got that bruise, followed up with how was she and her boyfriend. Both answers were sad excuses of lies and Clint felt an anger swell in him that was scary cold. He should have left Lucy's situation alone, but fate wasn't about to let him.

It happened while Lucy was alone in the lobby, at the front desk. Visiting hours weren't until tomorrow, but Clint had snuck into the lobby simply to stare out the windows. Lucy hadn't noticed him, headphones in and her eyes down on a document. She also hadn't noticed when her boyfriend, of the time, entered the lobby.

It all happened rather quickly. A harsh exchange of words and then a punch was thrown. The boyfriend's fist didn't land, however, as Clint had beat him to the attack and suddenly the bastard was sprawled on the floor, Lucy caught between his shock that her boyfriend tried to hit her, at her workplace no less, and that Clint was in the lobby. She hasn't even registered that Clint just punched her, now, ex.

The fallout resulted in security rushing in and Clint doesn't remember much else that happened. But, he does remember waking up from a dosage of tranquilizers with a smiling Lucy standing over him, thanking him and assuring him she was going to 'cut that bastard from her life'. Clint never asked her about it, but after that incident was around the time the candy started sneaking its way into his medication cup. This also started the unspoken agreement that if Lucy was the only one at the desk, Clint was safe to sneak into the lobby and not have to hide himself in the blind spot of Lucy's desk between the vending machine and sink.

Lucy will always think of Clint as a sort of guardian to her, but all Clint can think of is how it felt waking up to having someone by your side, but knowing that it shouldn't have been Lucy.

A few days later, he met Natasha.

* * *

_So this time I make sure_

_I really make sure_

_I'll never, ever see you again_

* * *

Her stomach is corroding itself from the inside out, the acids churning in nerves as she clenches her fists and sits perfectly still, straight, across from him. He looks as relaxed as ever and has his eyes trained on her, which makes it all the more unnerving.

Because everything about him is the same. His stance, the way he slouches slightly and favors one shoulder in his lean, and how his hands grip each other in his lap. The way he watches her like he's expecting her to make a move at any given moment and yet at the same time he wouldn't flinch or react. His hair is longer than usual but it's not the first time she's seen it this long or unruly-there's been a mission or two where hygiene took a back seat.

It's the recognition in his eyes that's so foreign. She hasn't seen him look at her with such little emotion, without an array of words and conversations hidden behind those pupils in years, if even. When she first met him, saw him, even then his eyes rung an unspoken promise to spare her, a small hope that she'd clung to since. Now, they were empty and as dumb as any other mindless set of eyes she came face to face with on any given mission or day.

They weren't his eyes.

He might as well have been controlled by Loki again.

* * *

"Why do you carry a gun?"

That catches her off guard, because he opens a conversation with that? Maybe this really is him, deep down.

"It's not illegal, with the proper license," she hand waves. He's not thrilled with her answer and he doesn't fall for it, but he also doesn't pursue it any further.

She also notes he doesn't ask why she 'has' a gun. He asks why she carries it, and while she doubts he's being all that particular on his wording, she does try to make a mountain out of the mole hill in the fact that it's his gun she's carrying. A part of her dreams that he recognizes that, but the sensible side of her recognizes he probably doesn't give a damn.

* * *

Eric is helping Angie with the tambourine, leaving Clint unattended on bongos for music hour. He checks the clock.

Still twelve minutes left.

If he's lucky, Angie will throw another fit and that will eat up Eric's time, leaving Clint to get away scotch free.

His mind wanders to the scars, multiply, that run across his torso arms. He counted four gunshot wounds on his back, but during medical examination, when he asked, the doctor reported he had five. The fifth must be low in the center of his back because no angle he can twist in front of the mirror reveals it to him.

He knows he wasn't an accountant. Of everything that is coming back to him, sitting at the counter of a bank and tallying up numbers isn't one of those memories. He does surprise himself with a calculator, however, during some basic math seminar to prep patients like wounded birds to be re-released into the wild world. Clint's skills seem to multiply each day, to the surprise of himself and everyone. He almost wants to test his theory that he's probably a grand pianist, but he's concerned that he'll be right and will attract attention from Eric and then he'll actually have to participate during group numbers.

Clint should be more curious about what he did, what with these wounds and skills and the itch in his fingers and the twitch in his shoulder. It should concern him how many times he's apparently been shot, cut or bruised, but the only concern he has is whether that gun Natasha has somehow ties her into this all as well.

He wonders if she's ever shot him, if she's bullet wound number five on his back.

His dreams still whisper of heart pounding chases and cold sweat and shots in the dark. Sometimes Natasha is there, other times she's not. Sometimes he hears a voice in his head- no, his ear- and it's not his own but it's just as familiar. And he'll wake up to the feeling of a piercing in his back, an old wound flaring up and he knows he just relived the memory of obtaining that bullet wound. But still, nothing makes sense and that word 'shield' keeps slipping in between conversations and it makes no sense in context but it doesn't need to because as long as Nat was there, and he's alive now, he knows everything is fine.

Clint is stirred to attention as Eric taps his shoulder.

"Nate, it's a simple beat, alright? Let's try it again, okay?"

Damn it.

There's still eight minutes.

* * *

_And in my days of loathing_

_You still haunt me_

* * *

Clint watches through the glass as the Nelsons sit across from their son, nervously attempting at small talk. Their son isn't looking at them, but he does nod at least twice throughout the conversation, and his eyes dart from the window once or twice to glance at Mr. Nelson, who is holding Ms. Nelson's hand and gently stroking his thumb across it. Their date the other night went well. Mr. Nelson has since invited Ms. Nelson to accompany him to a company diner, which he insists isn't very formal but she'll still wear her new red dress to it, because weight watchers has paid off these past few months and she wants to look her best (Or show off what he let go).

Lloyd's adult son and his wife and their only child currently still at home are expected to visit soon as well. Clint sighs, drumming his fingertips on his knees impatiently. Lucy walks by and smiles at him, to which he politely smiles back at. She's about to clock out early. She's having Andrea cover the rest of her shift so she can shower and get ready for her date tonight. Eric, of music hour, asked her out last week. They're going to see a movie together, maybe dinner afterwards. She told Clint, because he had time and was willing to listen to her, that they were just going to go as friends and that she didn't really see this as a date at all.

Clint knows she really likes him, but he keeps this observation to himself because hey, what the hell does he know about love?

After Lucy leaves, Clint wonders if he ever was in love. He's almost certain that Natasha was lying about 'Madison', but a part of him wonders if there ever was a Madison, or a Lucy or a Barbara. He tries to imagine what it was like in a relationship, tries to imagine some pretty, petite blonde clinging to his arm like Lucy, swooning over his every word.

But instead, all he can imagine is Natasha giving him a look that seems to both insult and assure him at the same time, and he can imagine her cursing him out for being an idiot for whatever quip he just said and then walking past him, expecting him to catch up.

And he'll take that over Lucy any day. No offense, Lucy.

Natasha doesn't show up, and Andrea ushers Clint from the lobby around the same time that Lloyd's son and daughter-in-law leave. Mr. Nelson holds the door open for Ms. Nelson and their son watches his parents leave, never taking his eyes from them. When they disappear down the hall, he smiles.

* * *

She's standing between Fury and the recently returned Hill, who looks like she hasn't slept in weeks and there's a cast on her wrist. All three of them are standing at attention, and the mood of the room reads of a funeral.

"Hill completed the task...we can stall the report for a few hours, but within the next twelve, it'll go down that Barton is currently MIA. Standard protocol given his last known check in and whereabouts being within the limits of the target give us exactly 72 hours the relocate Barton before he is declared KIA. You have this time limit, Agent Romanov, to-"

But Natasha's already shaking her head.

"It can't be done," she cuts him off. "He can't remember everything in three days, he barely just learned his real name-"

"-Do whatever it takes-"

"-You're asking something of me that isn't possible! There's no key word or single trigger that will bring everything back! It's a slow process, if possible at all! There's a chance he'll never remember anything more than what he does-"

"Then you have three days to evaluate as much," Fury snapped.

"What?"

"You have three days to give me an answer on whether you think there's hope for Barton, or he's a lost cause. If, at the end of those three days, you come to the conclusion that there's still hope, that there's a piece of the old Barton left in him, then I will do whatever it takes and do everything I possibly can to stall the council's knowledge of Barton until you can break through to him. Because I have that much faith in Agent Barton and even some in you, Agent Romanov."

Natasha felt the swelling in her throat but said nothing. Fury sighed.

"If, however, you determine that Barton has no hope in regaining his memories substantially enough, then I'll leave it to your call as to what direction to be taken after.'

"Sir?"

"I know what you're thinking, Romanov. That if you leave him alone now, he'll eventually be cleared by the ward and set off into the real world again. That he'll drift somewhere in life, perhaps find a comfortable setting of a suburban home and picket fence and that he'll live the life that you both were deprived off."

Fury wasn't as oblivious as he pretended to be.

"There's also the chance that he'll even feel satisfied with such a life, that the 'Old Barton' won't seep through and remind him that he was meant for so much more. Hell, there's also the chance that the Council finds out and within twenty four hours of your decision, he's extracted like any other target."

Bitterly, Natasha reminded herself that maybe that was the ultimate mercy call.

"I'll leave that up to you to decide," Was Fury's final words as he left, Hill trailing somberly behind hm.

* * *

_You got away_

_You got away_

_You run away_

_Oh, you're like a stampede in the dark_

* * *

"Lucy?" He smiles, happier today than usual. It's Tuesday and he missed Nat last week.

"Yes, Nate?"

"Call me Clint," He winks. Lucy looks perplexed but slowly nods, because it's custom to just give in to what a patient asks. He's confused and if he wants to be Clint this week and Charlie the next week, she won't tell him no.

"Alright, Clint," she answers as she opens the door for him.

* * *

All his fears of Nat not being there, waiting for him, are pleasantly pushed aside as he instantly catches sight of her violent red hair. Her back is to him and he purposely steps louder so she'll hear him coming. He doesn't want to spook her, but even then he doubts he would have anyway.

When he rounds to see her face, she looks more uptight than she ever has and he instantly looses his smile.

She wastes no time in speaking.

"I've arranged that our visiting hour has been extended to three, uninterrupted, hours for the next three days."

It sounded like an exam date, he thought.

"Is...there a reason?"

She says nothing and that confirms that there is.

"I'll start. I need you to try to remember anything you can. Anything will do, just...try to think about who you were, what you did." There's a plead in her voice and the Natasha he'd met over the past few weeks has never looked so desperate, he thinks. She sounds like his psych and the thought crosses his mind more than once that she secretly is a governmental evaluator.

That sounds closer than working for a law firm, he thinks.

"I don't remember working at a bank," He jokes, but her face flashes a warning that she's strict business at this moment.

"I'm serious. Please," she adds.

He sighs and finally complies.

Ten minutes later he's convulsing from pain and she's yelling at the nurses to stand down because he needs this and she has at least two more hours with him.

Fifteen minutes later, it's too much for anyone to bear to watch and she gives up, sprinting from the room as nurses restrain him. His head hurts so much that he doesn't fight the medication they push down his throat, like a dog, and when he wakes up, it's the middle of the night and all he can think of is the flash of horror, of disappointment, on Natasha's face when nothing came to him.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep again.

* * *

_You got away_

_You got away_

_You run away_

_Oh, you're like a stampede in the dark_

* * *

He dreams again that night. It's flashes of memories, or flat fields and chasing a kid no older than him. And of hiding under tables as crashes surround him on the hardwood floors that are most certainly not carpet.

Adorning crowds and audiences cheer and the scent overwhelms him of horse and animal, and he feels air underneath him and his balance threatens to roll him off the bed but still he doesn't wake up.

Then there is fire and death and nothing makes sense and he's running through streets and cities and yelling things in languages he never knew he knows. And it makes no sense but in the middle of it all is Natasha.

At first she's looking at him with those eyes, with desperation and fear and at the tip of his hands, he holds her fate, her life. And again she spits something at him, a question or a threat.

And again, he smiles and lowers his hands and responds, "I'm making a different call."

And then he's back in those streets and there's still fires and he's perched up on roofs, but it's no longer as confusing and overwhelming as before because now Natasha is with him.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, the images still clear however.

* * *

_And I swear that someday_

_I'll be sorry_

_And I swear that someday_

_I'll be sorry_

_Yeah, I swear someday_

_That I'll be sorry_

_Yeah, I swear someday_

_That I'll be sorry_

_I'll be sorry_

* * *

He doesn't expect her back the next day, and is even more so surprised when he sees her standing there with a man by her side.

Any theories he has of their relationship fade when he notices how tense she is standing by him. There's trust there, and also fear. Something about this shaggy, poorly suited man both unnerves her as well as comforts her. He can't quite put his finger on why he, either, feels a bit afraid standing by this man. He looks harmless.

"Hello, Clint," the man awkwardly greets, looking between Nat and Clint, as though for confirmation that this is alright.

"He's a doctor," Nat offers as Clint hesitantly sits across from them.

He's unorthodox as a doctor, and Clint suspects that if he is such, he's not one of the psych field. His questions are peculiar and Clint isn't sure where he's going with this.

"How are you feeling today, Clint?" He asks, like he's trying to establish that he's a friend and that Clint shouldn't feel guarded around him, but Clint still does.

Clint tries not to look at Natasha and slowly nods, "Fine."

"You look pretty thin...have you been eating much?" the man asks, trying to sound concerned. It works, because Clint is almost fooled for a moment into thinking that this man knows him, knew him, from before the accident.

"Three hours with me and you want to spend it with formalities about my health while we're sitting in a hospital?"

The doctor chuckles, "You sound alright."

"I'm sorry, who did you say you were?" Clint asks.

The man rubs the bridge of his nose.

"I didn't. Alright, let's get to it then."

* * *

The doctor didn't ask a lot of questions for awhile. He dropped the generic approach, but he still spoke conversationally to Clint. The jumped topics between weather (From thunderstorms to a dislike of the cold, Clint admitted) to music (Clint scratched his head and admitted in all honesty that something about ACDC annoyed him; Eric, the music hour volunteer, always had a ringtone of their song and while the music itself wasn't bad, Clint always felt like he had to be on guard, not for a threat, but just to brace himself for some irritation. Whatever he'd meant apparently was like an inside joke to Natasha and the doctor, because they both smiled and Natasha shrugged).

The doctor then pulled a move that Clint had to admit was choreographed but interesting. He handed Clint a marble and bet that he couldn't make a shot of the marble into the trash bin from across the room. He bet a dollar, to which Clint shrugged and thought he had nothing better to do. The man didn't even have to bet him-if he'd have asked, Clint would have tried to make the shot simply because this guy was telling him to do so and he was, apparently, a doctor.

Clint lined up the shot, found that almost too easy, and instead aimed for a trick shot, bouncing off Lucy's desk, the ceiling corner, and finally into the bin.

The doctor didn't look all that surprised, or impressed. Wordlessly, he pulled forth his wallet and opened it.

Something, however, wasn't quite right, because Natasha instantly tensed as the doctor chuckled a bit to himself.

"Well, what do you know," he added, almost to himself. "Here, take a look at these-" He added, addressing Clint as he pulled something out along with his dollar. He plopped it onto the coffee table between them, and spanned out in front of Clint was a set of cards.

"I borrowed these from a friend not too long ago; must've forgotten to give them back..."

But Clint wasn't hearing him. The cards were vintage, with designs of a goofy looking fellow, dressed in red and white and blue, posing victoriously and striking out at the border of the cards. A few cards were stained, and with horror Clint recognizes the crusting stains to be blood, and one even had a scribbled signature scribed on it.

Clint held the cards in his hands and stared at them for a moment. He'd seen these somewhere before.

"Clint..?" Natasha asked, but Clint said nothing.

Finally, he stood up, dropped the cards onto the table, and walked away from the duo. Lucy waited just outside the doors, jumping when Clint pushed his way past the doors and her. He made a straight line towards the shower, throwing himself inside one and pushing the cold water on. He didn't bother stripping of his clothes, slamming his fists onto the wall as water rained over him and an overwhelming grief filled him.

He knew who once had owned those cards, and it killed him that he couldn't remember.

* * *

"There's definitely hope. I'm not sure how much is coming back or has always been there, but there's some form of recognition, Natasha."

She inhales sharply.

"You think he'll ever come back?"

"I think miracles can happen once in a lifetime," he responds honestly. She bites her lip.

"What do you think?" She begs finally. "Honestly, what would you say?!"

"Honestly?" Banner shrugs. "The life you both lived, the one you're living...it's filled with death and missions and you're robbed of so much experiences and in return there are risks like this one-where either one of you can return or can not, and die in the field or return like Barton did. It' not much of a life. Can he come back? I think there's a possibility. Do I want him to?"

He hesitates. "I want Barton back just as much as we all do, _maybe _even as much as you do. But I don't want to see him come back just to watch him leave and have the same thing happen again. I couldn't take watching that again. I don't think you could, either."

He was right.

Maybe she should leave him as he is.

* * *

_You got away_

_You got away_

_You run away_

_Oh, you're like a stampede in the dark_

* * *

"Today's our third day. What happens after this? Do you stop coming to see me?"

She says nothing, standing at the center of the roof. He doesn't even acknowledge what happened yesterday.

"Exactly why are we here..?" He asks. He doesn't know how she got clearance to set up these three days, three hours, and it shouldn't surprise him so much that she's managed to arrange their third day on the roof.

In her hand is a bow and a quiver lay beside her feet.

"You're going to shoot this."

It's perplexing how she can assume he's ever wielded a bow and arrow before (what an odd weapon choice-does he hunt often?) But he says nothing and the moment the bow is in his hand, everything feels natural again.

"What's my target?" Is all he asks. She points at the rafters of a billboard and wordlessly he lets an arrow fly flawlessly where her finger indicates.

There's hope.

* * *

After an hour and a half of silently pointing to targets, the arrows have dwindled to none and his fingers are bleeding without guards. He hasn't noticed, though. He's never felt more like himself, more comfortable, and it isn't until he reaches behind his back and comes up empty handed does he remember where he is, standing on the roof of a ward, and who he is, still a disappointing no idea.

Nat doesn't lift her hand to point, waiting as Clint turns around to face her and anticipating what he'll say.

"Do I hunt a lot?" He asks, and it sounds like a stupid question and he thinks she must agree because she laughs as an answer.

"You could say that."

He lowers the bow, and his eyes darken.

"What was his name?" He asks.

She knows exactly who he's talking about.

"Phil."

Clint nods because that sounds about right.

"Tell me about the night..." He motions to the sides of his head, "Happened"

She hesitates because there's only so much she can tell him without giving away too much.

So, she opts for a very broad interpretation.

"You were caught in an explosion," She finally admits. It's vague, but it explains the flash of light he remembers.

"Shrapnel caught you in the side of the skull. I believe it was your temporal lobe..?" That doesn't sound right, and all too late she wonders if he'll ask how she knows so much about the attack, about his incident, and yet why she didn't show up until weeks after it happened. Why did she leave him?

Before he can ask that, before he can tear her apart for that disloyalty, she adds, "I wasn't there at the time." She swallows a knot, of regret and grief. "I was overseas..." She doesn't say why. "I came once I heard, but-"

She doesn't finish with the weak excuse, 'but I was too late'. But that still doesn't excuse why she wasn't there to have his back. To warn him that someone was out for revenge, that he'd been tagged and that fate would work against him in that he'd survive by the hair of a miracle but that it'd cost him.

And she couldn't explain just why Shield didn't know about the attack until he was already in surgery and that Fury was keeping the attack confidential for reasons only his secrets knew the answer to. That Fury couldn't extract Barton to fall under Shield's medical care because that would alert his condition to the Council and that was to sign away his own life.

He looks at his fingers, but they went numb awhile back. He wonders why she didn't bring him a guard or something for his hands, but he doesn't condemn her for not doing so. If at the end of this day, he looses her, at least these scars will stay with him, for a little while.

He thinks back to the past three days.

"Will you be back? Tuesday, I mean?"

She hasn't lied to him since he called her out on it, so she answers honestly, "I don't know."

He nods, accepting that this could very well be the last time he sees her, before sighing and turning his attention up to the sky.

"I guess if this is it, then...can I ask you something?"

"You always can."

He nods.

"Am I ever going to remember?"

That was the question she had to answer.

* * *

_And I swear someday_

_I'll be sorry_

_Yeah, I swear someday_

_That I'll be sorry_

* * *

"Sir, I've made my evaluation. I believe Agent Barton-"

"They know."

Natasha freezes, shaking her head. "I don't understand..?"

"The council found out about Barton."

Oh.

"Extraction will take place tonight, at 0300 hours."

Natasha slowly nods.

"I see."

The council had mad their call.

"They've assigned you to back up the operation."

Fury shot her a look that seemed to challenge her. Seemed to tell her-

It's your turn. What's your call?

* * *

_In the dark_

_In the dark_

_In the dark_

_Yeah I'll be sorry_

* * *

Ever since that last day he's been deteriorating. Whatever memories he was grasping at were slipping farther and farther from him. Nightmares made less sense and he woke up on more than one occasion having forgotten half the dream, or key components of it. By the third night, he stopped having dreams altogether.

Worse of all he was forgetting her. He couldn't picture her face, the details of her eyes and lips, as well as before and he had trouble deciphering what shade of red her hair had been. He almost mistook a brunette to be her, one afternoon

He felt disgusted with himself for that mistake.

"Nate?"

Lucy looks concerned, placing a hand on Clint's forearm. He's in physical therapy, at a set of weights. Normally, this is his favorite two hours of the week. It' a part of his recovery and while he's already cleared every test and excels with the basic weights and equipment that he's been cleared to use (under supervision), his progress has seemed to back pedal since Natasha stopped coming by.

Lucy seemed horrified by the scars and blisters on his fingers after hours of archery. His fingers haven't healed since, and he has trouble gripping anything. Whatever fatigue he's built up from lack of sleep seemed to catch up to him all at once, and he's lost much of the drive to even perform the basic therapy repetition.

Lucy sighs again, leaning back in her chair when Clint flinches out of her grip. He almost yells at her not to touch him-that she's not Natasha and only Natasha is allowed to grip his arm like that.

"Let's...let's try it again, Nate," She encourages, speaking softly like he's a child. She's forgotten to call him Clint, but he stopped correcting her because what's the point. Natasha left him. All he has left is her name.

Again, the dumb bell drops to his feet and clangs on the floor and Clint pushes his back against the chair.

"Are you getting any sleep..?" Lucy asks, grasping for some explanation.

Clint brushes her off, and no, he isn't. Because if he falls asleep, he'll forget her.

* * *

So he finds himself wide awake, because he's afraid to fall asleep. He's afraid he'll fall asleep and wake up, one step farther from remembering anything and from remembering her.

It's because he's wide awake that he hears the shuffle of boots. It's quiet and faint, but his ears pick up on it and he knows it's not his imagination when he hears the light click of the door. Someone is entering his room. He darts his eyes to his roommate, a kid hardly over twenty-one who is fresh out of drug rehab and is moody at best on his three-month clean streak. He's sound asleep and, thankfully, for the first time this week, not snoring.

Clint stiffens but tells himself to relax his muscles. His eyes have long since adjusted to the dark, starring abysmally into it for the past four hours, and it takes whatever control he can muster not to jump upright when sure enough, in steps several heavily armed and guarded men.

One signals with his finger to approach the bed, and in a few quick steps, Clint is surrounded. He wants to panic but keeps his heart rate slow, appears to still be asleep. He watches the first man, the one who signaled, slowly lift a gun, pin-pointed for Clint's head. It's an odd muzzle and Clint is almost certain that it's not an ordinary bullet waiting for him.

He counts and he's surrounded by at least six men. That alone should unnerve him, but he still is having difficulty overcoming the fact that most definitely someone wants him dead, rather than someone wants him dead and is willing to send in six fully armed men to get the job done.

He reacts in seconds, throwing his feet up to knock the gun just as his hand throws up the sheet to blind and distract the other men. Leaping off the mattress, he lands a kick at the leader's gut, knocking him backwards. He whips around to punch the next assailant down and another kick narrows the field down further. Someone shoots and sure enough it's no bullet. A dart lands in the wall and Clint only spares a moment to admire it before defending himself.

The Kevlar these men wear is thick, but Clint aims for their arms, bare except for sleeves, and their necks where the helmets fall short. He's pretty sure he hears the sound of something snap and he wouldn't put it behind him if he'd just managed to kill one of them. He hopes he hasn't, but he doesn't spare much thought else on it.

The kid, who goes by Roland if Clint is not mistaken, is still asleep. He must have doubled the medication, or he's a heavy sleeper. Clint doesn't wait for any of the men to come to. He runs from the room, from Roland and the armed men.

Apparently he miscounted because in the hall, and already stirring to action, are at least four more men (Or women; it's dark and their forms are distorted by armor). Again, the sound of guns go off but the shots are all silenced, pressured by air rather than explosion and Clint can feel the darts whizz by him, barely missing.

He dives at the feet of the nearest attacker, kicking from underneath him. With a yelp, the man falls ad Clint waists no time in disarming him of his gun.

The fallen man reaches to his shoulder, still wincing in pain at his legs, and shouts through his muffled mask, "Shield, come in-requesting back up, immediately! Target is hostile, repeat-"

Clint takes aim and lets loose three bullets, all which hit directly square in the chest of the remaining three. He then turns and drops the but of the gun against the head of the fourth man, knocking him unconscious.

He finally breathes, eyeing the fallen men sprawled around him and he throws the gun carelessly to the side, standing and quickly building up a sprint down the hall.

His mind races to that dart, and at what he just survived. His reactions, how he defended himself and how he knew how to react, what to do. He knows that dart was meant to kill him. Those men were meant to kill him.

He feels bad, knowing Lucy has the early shift tomorrow and will walk in on at least three corpses just outside his room. He feels worse for Rolland, who will have to wake up to that sight, unless back up arrives and cleans the hallway and room and retrieves the men before Rolland (Or maybe Reggie..?) or Lucy see it.

He hopes that whoever wants him dead will have the decency to wipe their tracks and clean any evidence that they were here this night.

He knows that he's checking out tonight, whether he survives it or not. He can't stay here. That's the only thing that makes sense at the moment, that driving need to survive and escape. This isn't a dream, no matter how similar it feels to one (The rush of trying to survive, of running through the dark and defending himself without thinking; the feel of a gun in hand and the trigger at his finger). He isn't going to just wake up in the morning to the sound of Rolland (He's sure it's Rolland) snoring, and be greeted by a cheerful Lucy who just clocked in an hour ago and hands him a cup of anti-depressants and skittles. Lloyd will have to sit alone at the breakfast table, and Clint won't get to overhear how Mr. Nelson's business dinner went, or hear the whispered compliments because Mr. Nelson just cannot get over how stunning Ms. Nelson looked last night ("No, really...").

But he can't think about Lucy and how she'll feel when Clint isn't there and how Eric will have to replace him on the bongos for the group performance or how Andrea will finally feel at ease because Clint has unnerved her ever since he came here.

He can only think about what's happening now and how he's going to survive it.

The word 'shield' resurfaces in his mind and so do all those bullet wounds and nightmares. He still doesn't know who he is, but everything around him is starting to click into place that at least it's all interconnected.

And somewhere, in all this, Nat comes to mind. He knows he needs answers, and he knows she has them.

He thinks back to what Nat wanted of him, that first day of their final three. To think, to remember. His head is pounding and he's panicking, he has no time and this is all so fucked up, but he has to concentrate. He knows that, for sure, someone wants him dead. And if they were willing to send that squad in to do it, it wasn't beneath them to send back-up. He makes a sprint for the lobby and from there he thinks he'll check the visitor sign in, try to get a full name on Natasha or even that doctor. Just something to go by, to contact.

As he rounds the corner, he finds he doesn't need to.

There, standing before him, and most certainly not a hallucination, is Natasha.

* * *

_In the dark_

_In the dark_

_In the dark_

* * *

Natasha tries to smile at him, but gives up as her lip quivers and the smile breaks. She's dressed like the men were-suited and in all black. She no longer wears the excessive make up and heels, and the gun sits on her hip. Clint's eyes dart to her shoulder, where a patch of some symbol is. He's seen that symbol before and it dawns on him.

Perhaps all it took was the trauma of nearly being assassinated, because suddenly a lot more is coming back and she almost wishes she'd tried to spar him that first day because if she had, maybe none of this would have happened and they'd have ended this mess a long time ago.

"You're working with them!" He snaps, and he's breathing heavier than she's ever seen him. He's never been this panicked, this uncontrolled and hysteric. He's forgotten all his training and he's fooled himself to think he has emotions.

Confirmed, she really does wish she'd left him alone all those weeks ago. That she'd told Fury to stick it when he assigned her this task, and to let Barton live on obliviously in this new world, this second chance at life.

"Y-you're working with...Shield, was it? And they're trying to kill me...you were sent to kill me?!"

She shakes her head but words fail her at the moment. Is that tears welling in her eyes? Or his? She isn't sure who feels more betrayed at the moment.

How could he ever think she'd be capable of killing him?

"They...your people, tried to kill me-you're an agent of theirs, aren't you? You're here to finish the job?! They sent you, the best, the infiltrator-the Black Widow."

He hasn't called her that since he first met her. After seeing her, she was no longer the Black Widow to him. She was a person. Natasha.

A bitter part of her is almost happy that he's remember Shield, at least.

"Why'd they send you? Exactly what'd I do to land on Shield's radar?"

It's so painful because he remembers nothing.

"You're here to kill me, aren't you?!" He shouts, desperate for her to say something. Answer him.

She wishes she could just nod, lie to him and get this over with. Put them both out of their miseries. But she's frozen and can't even give him the satisfaction of that.

"Then why don't you?! Just do it already, kill me!"

Suddenly her spine shivers alive and she's out right laughing, and this causes him to flinch to attention. She's actually crying, it's so funny. Their situation, the reversal of roles. She finally relaxes her body and grips her stomach, because it's so painfully funny. His eyes dart about her demeanor, and he finally asks, "Aren't you going to kill me? That's why you were sent, wasn't it?"

And she genuinely smiles at him, replying, "I'm going to make a different call."

* * *

**A/N: **Straight to it-Warning; it's long

"Stampede", sadly, is one of my least favorite songs off the album. Why? Because it took me forever to connect with it as far as inspiration for a oneshot of these two went :p So matching it to these drabbly ramblings was kind of a lnog shot, but in the end it worked out :)

These amnesia plots are touched upon a lot in fan fiction, and to be compeltely honest I'm not a fan of them. Why I finally caved and wrote one?

Because in all honesty I wanted to write a fic where Barton walked away from Shield and they had to deal with him (I know, it's kind of a demented whump excuse T_T) Originally, I toyed with the idea of Barton walking off on his own terms after Natasha's death or departure, but I just couldn't bring myself to do that do him (Yet I have less of a problem killing Clint off for Natasha to suffer :p Sorry!) So that plot bunny molded with these guilty pleasure drabbles I had about Clint loosing his memory and they seemed to work well enoguh for me :3

(Sorry, a lot here!) Also, I loved the contrast between Clint and Natasha. He's happy to see her and clinging to her visits and what she represents to him, and she's teetering on the idea to ditch and forget about him for her own self preserverance Haha well, that's what I meant for anyway :p

(Guiltily, I admit, I really liekd the idea of Clnit being called 'Nate', cause I imagine he'd mutter her name and the nurses mitsake it to be his ;3)

I'm not a fan of OCs, but it was kinda fun writing about the backgroudn aptients, and I tried to give them happier (Experiences? Lives? Idk...) to contrast with Natasha and Clnit's predicament, which to be honest to me seemed kinda painful (One passage he's contemplatingabout love and Natasha; the next, she's dreading having to see him) Sorry if the OCs took away from them :I

The ending is very ambiguous but kinda hopeful-If you're like me and want a more solid ending, well, you're free to think up a better conclusion-maybe a happy one where Natasha takes Clint home to the others and regains hi smemory ;3 On that note, sorry the other Avengers had almsot no screen time in this! I threw Bruce in but, having no knowledge on psych evaluations or anything like that, it was difficult to write him in; but, Fury had a larger part so I guess this was his highlight secondary character chapter :p

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this oneshot! I wrote too much and probably have more to say but I'll end this now here! Sorry! Hope you enjoyed!


	8. Hiding Out

It's been so long~! I'll admit, this chapter isn't...my favorite. The beginning and the end I've had written and planned for months now-it was all the meaty middle that I just typed up over the last two days :p

It's another amnesia (Sort of) fic-I guess I love the idea of Clint forgetting everyone (Natasha in particular -_-) I meant for Barney to have a larger part in this story-I love the brotherly dynamic, and it started out that way. But, by the middle and end, you can see I lost sight of that T_T *Sorry Barney!*

This fic, like the others, can get a little confusing. I'll warn you even now, it makes little sense until you read through to the end. I've always wanted to do a story that read backwards (I read one once that was magnificent and I wish I could duplicate the success of that story!) And while this isn't like that much really at all, I'd like to think it shares some similarities-in other words, it won't make much sense I think till you've read it all through. The characters will be just about as confused as you-sorry for that!

Disclaimer: I own nothing~! Also, there's some cussing- a few slip ups of the "F" word-I want to say there's three, but I'm not sure-if you find more, I apologize; less, good for you!

I hope you enjoy! "Hiding Out" Is a gorgeous song by "Sucre" off her album "A Minor Bird"-give it a listen!

* * *

_Hiding Out_

* * *

_Oh, let me inside_

_'Cause my money is paid_

_You have the right to remain_

_'Cause my money is paid_

* * *

"You could've made that shot," His brother quips, trying to sound accusing but his smirk gives away his amusement. Clint sets his final arrow into the quiver, ignoring Barney just a moment longer before looking up to acknowledge his brother's harassment. It's nearly noon the day after a performance, so it seems about the right time for it.

"I told you during practice that morning-we weren't going to do that shot."

"But you can make it. I've seen you make it-the angle, the position, everything is perfect; it's staged! Just take the shot, it'll make the routine that much better if you just-"

"Barney. No," Clint ended, a hand signaling he was through with discussion. They'd argued enough in the past week alone about the final shot in Clint's act, and while Clint was satisfied with his double flaming arrow trick shot, his brother insisted he take a final curved shot that snatched two targets at once.

"People like fire-they prefer fire! Fire is good," He shrugged, trying to end the discussion on a light note. He wasn't mad at Barney. He just knew he was right, and Barney needed to accept that.

Barney sighed.

"You alright, bro?"

Clint paused, giving Barney a look over his shoulder that questioned this out-of-nowhere concern that Barney had materialized.

"I just mean, you've been on edge for a week now…you're not still having that weird dream, are you?"

"No," Clint lied. The dream where nothing made sense and Clint woke up, feeling a rush like they'd been all too real. The dreams of sky and light and voices that Clint didn't recognize from any show or circus, regardless of whatever influence he'd been under.

"You'd tell me if you were?"

"Course," he lied again.

Barney saw through it and shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Pain in the ass," he muttered.

Clint retaliated with the appropriate younger brother response of sticking out his tongue.

Barney motioned a threat that if he caught that tongue, there'd be hell to play. The moment his back turned, Clint made a face.

"Suit up, Hawkeye," Barney grunted, Clint smiling as his brother retreated.

"It's the Amazing Hawkeye, thank you very much."

* * *

"I suppose I owe you an apology, Clint…crowds do love fire!" Barney winks, tossing Clint a towel as the younger brother runs the cloth across his brow, smiling that his brother has finally accepted he was right. The show is ending as they speak, while the crowd still awestruck from Clint's last performance. Their eyes are alit, much like Clint's final arrow had been, and Barney had not missed this as he overlooked his brother's performance from behind the cast's curtain.

"I knew you'd see to reason soon enough," Clint jokes, taking a chug of water as well to calm his dry throat. Barney rolls his eyes and leans against the nearest post, watching Clint for a moment before casually mentioning,

"Do you like it here?"

Clint shrugs.

"It's nothing but cornfields-it's home though, isn't it? We'll be down south in a week, though-just in time for Mardi Gras I think-"

"-That's next month."

"Oh…damn."

"I meant here…apart of the circus."

Clint pauses, trying to read what Barney is getting at before setting his water bottle down again and rubbing the back of his neck, which is sore from sleeping on it wrongly.

"You…want to leave the circus?"

"I want to know if you like it here."

Clint winks an eye in thought, breathing heavily through his nose before scratching his forehead.

"Barnes…"

"Clint, it's just a question. C'mon, honestly, did you think, when we ran away to join the circus at our preadolescent ages, that we'd be a part of the circus until we were forty, fifty-? I just want to know if you really are…content…being here, and spending your whole life here. Will you be okay becoming the next Gary?"

Gary was well past his prime and was bound in contracted work to the circus on paper only.

Clint tried to nonchalantly shrug. "Gary seems happy-"

"That's because Gary is drunk."

Clint frowned.

"I…am happy. Barnes, the circus is fine-we work maybe three shows a week and we travel all across the country; it's a steady pay and it's not some desk job…" Clint trailed off.

"So you wouldn't mind wearing that ridiculous spandex for the rest of your life?"

"Purple looks good on me," Clint shrugs. "Why are you so against the circus now? What's got you thinking we have any other place out there in the world? It's not like we have a college education-hell, Barnes, you never graduated high school-"

"I've got some money saved up, it's not too late-"

"Money saved up enough for the both of us? To support us while we pushed at least one of us through education, working menial jobs-because that market is stable-"

"Clint, I just-"

"-The circus is survival, Barnes," Clint declares. "It's a paycheck and a roof over our heads and it's all we've got. So," He nods, not quite knowing what to finish with and just hoping that his message was received and that Barney will quit challenging his decision.

He's not sure, though, who he was trying to convince more; Barney, or himself.

"Oi, boys-"

The brothers turned to face Gary, the old stage direction manager who had self-demoted himself to free-loader drunk. The only reason the circus kept him around was that management had yet to hear of how little productivity Gary provided, and rarely did they interact or interfere with any of the lowly workers or cast of the circus.

"Gary, you look chipper as ever!" Barney joked.

Clint chuckled as Gary ignored him.

"The ringmaster'd li' a 'ord wit' you, 'Clin'…" Gary slurred.

Clint frowned.

"Just me? What does he want-"

"Te hell 'f I know.."

Clint looked to Barney. Rarely did management want to even acknowledge the circus brothers, and even odder yet did they want to acknowledge only half the pair. Barney smiled encouragingly at Clint, but twitched momentarily with surprise.

Clint stepped slowly after Gary, his eyes following Barney.

"It'll probably only take a minute. I'll just be here," Barney smirked.

Clint smiled in return, nodding.

"No you won't-you'll be chasing after the girls behind the elephant trailer."

Barney winked.

"You know where to find me."

* * *

The Ringmaster could be found behind a flap, a tiny office, branched from the great tent of the show itself. They were an old school circus, in this day and age, with a classic stage of dirt and a roof of posts and fabric. Everyone slept amongst the animals and hay, the only difference between seasons being how close for warmth you slept to the strangers around you (No one was a stranger, though. They were a family).

Gary didn't follow Clint in, remaining outside the room's opening. Clint didn't suspect much behind it-Gary would avoid the ringmaster just as the ringmaster would avoid Gary. Their feud was infamous, but the man in charge would never fire Gary. Maybe some life debt or guilt kept him from it.

Or the paperwork wasn't worth the trouble.

Clint nodded to Gary, who scratched his beard and pretended not to see, and stepped inside.

The ringmaster, a middle aged man who only had his position because he was a distant relative of the owners of the circus, stood behind his fake wood desk. He looked irritated and Clint grew wary that perhaps a prank had come back to haunt him. He wasn't in the slightest aware of what this meeting entailed, but if he was about to be punished for something Barney, too, was accredited blame for…

Damn Barney, Clint thought. This would not be the first time he took the fall for his brother's schemes.

They were adults by now, surely they'd outgrown this stage in their lives where everyone lectured and berated them.

"Sir-"

The ringmaster ignored Clint, raising a hand to silence his protests before he began.

"These gentlemen specifically requested your presence. I'll leave you to them," he finished, and with that exited the tent.

* * *

Clint, bewildered, turned his attention to the side of the tent that he'd neglected to notice before.

In two chairs sat the oddest pair Clint had ever seen (amongst a circus setting, no less).

The first man looked baffled to be here. Fidgeting and nervous, he pushed at his glasses apprehensively and tried to smile genuinely at Clint. His shirt was buttoned down and tucked into his pants. His hair looked like it once upon a time had been combed back into a proper, neat presentation but now it just fell loosely over the man's forehead, having been run through too many times with nervous hands.

The second man, dressed in a suit that cost more money than Clint had ever possessed, Clint instantly recognized from a time magazine cover.

Tony Stark.

"Clint Barton-the amazing Hawkeye, I presume?"

Mr. Stark spoke first, standing as though to take in Clint's appearance, fully weigh and judge him for size. Clint continued to gawk at how the billionaire, known for his weapon designs and technology, knew of Clint at all. He forgot to even respond.

Mr. Stark coughed and Clint quickly caught his mistake, babbling a short "yes."

Mr. Stark didn't smile, or scowl, but something in his eye gave away that he recognized Clint, like he'd found an old friend after years of searching.

Clint looked to the second man, who was slowly lifting himself from his own chair.

"This is my colleague, Dr. Bruce Banner."

Clint smiled. A doctor?!

"Spectacular show you put on, out there; loved the bit with the fire!"

Wait til Barney heard that!

Clint coughed.

"Sorry to take you away from your work, gentlemen," Clint started. All the manners he'd never been taught were flooding to him; he'd try his damn hardest to appear presentable to these two men, at all costs.

It was at this that Stark frowned.

"Barton, may I call you Clint?"

Clint nodded slowly, before caching himself and adding, "You m-may, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark narrowed his eyes momentarily before coughing and continuing.

"Clint, Dr. Banner and I…we've tracked you down because we have a dilemma."

Clint looked between the two. Banner had yet to say anything, and this meeting was growing in strangeness. He turned back to Mr. Stark, nodding for him to continue.

"We've…found ourselves very far from home," Stark continued, looking to Banner pleadingly as though requesting his help in explaining.

Clint scratched his head.

"I can't offer you money, sir; surely, that's not the problem? I mean, the airport is down on-"

"No, no thank you, that's not it. And believe me, I'll never run out of money," Mr. Stark chuckled, though only he saw the humor in the joke. Clearing his throat, he continued.

"No-by home, I mean…" Never one to keep a secret, he blurted, "-this isn't our world."

Clint thought he heard wrong, so he pretended to understand and nod. Dr. Banner caught this and sighed, finally intervening.

"Mr. Stark means…this dimension, rather. This…time continuum. It's not the one we're from-"

"I swear it was Loki or that bunch again. Gods," Mr. Stark scoffed. Clint continued to imagine he was hearing things, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so and continue to keep his composure.

"Barton," Dr. Banner continued, "Where we're from, our actual…world, I guess you could call it, though it's the same world, in a sense…ah, the point is, Barton-"

"We're not from here." Mr. Stark cut in. "Banner isn't, I'm not. And you. You're not from here."

Clint found his words, and the conversation, because all at once he interjected, "Excuse me, Mr. Stark, but you're accusing me…I-I'm from here," he laughed, nervously. "Me, and Barney, my brother, see-we've lived our whole lives together and a good chunk of it in the circus. I don't mean to accuse you of being wrong," but you're crazy, "But perhaps you have the wrong Barton. It's a common name, and I'm sure the one you're looking for maybe knows he doesn't belong-"

"Clint Barton? The Amazing Hawkeye? World's Greatest Marksman? From Iowa-"

"You read that from the fliers-"

"Yes, that's how we knew where to find you. You're the Barton we've been looking for, and thankfully you were easy to find."

"Yes, but you're saying I'm from another world-?!"

"We are," Mr. Stark corrected.

What a prank this was! A billionaire and a doctor trying to convince him he was an alien?!

"Did Barney put you up to this? I don't know where he found you, sir, because you're a dead ringer to be an impersonator of Stark, and I don't know how much Barney paid you both to pull this off, but I'll have him know if he blew our paychecks off for a little laugh-"

By this, Stark had had enough, cutting Clint's rant off short.

"Barton. You could not pay me enough to come down to this dirty, double-dealing circus tent with the intention of singling out one performer for a prank. You're circus itself is not worth enough money to pay me to do that. No, myself and Dr. Banner are here because we are not from here," He paused to frown, choosing his words, "from this dimension. No, this is going to sound crazy but you are going to believe us because it's the truth and I, as you know because I just told you, would not be here if it was a lie."

"Where we are from, where you are from, I am still a billionaire, and he is still a doctor and you're the greatest marksman in the world. But, I do not manufacture weapons-" again he hesitated, "anymore. And Banner has some.." again he struggled for believable words, "issues. Issues that do not come into play in this world because they did not occur in this world. See, the timeline here is different. Because at this point in your life, in your actual life back where we're all from, you are no longer apart of the circus."

Clint cocked a brow at this.

"If I'm not a part of the circus, where are Barney and I..?"

Mr. Stark almost answered that before catching himself.

"You…you are a spy."

Clint burst out laughing at this.

* * *

It was hilarious, Clint thought, collapsing hysterically into the chair nearest him. He folded himself to his knees, his hands weighing down his head as he either cried or laughed.

Finally, he looked up.

"A spy-?!"

Barney would love to hear this.

Mr. Stark slowly nodded, wary of Clint's reaction.

Clint smiled, turned his face towards the exit, and stood.

"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you both. I enjoyed this conversation, though I feel awful sorry for the two of you, having wasted your time here-"

Before he could step, however, Mr. Stark had stepped in front of him. He was a short man, though built in build and with a dead, serious look in his eye.

"This is not a joke, and I'd thought I'd made myself clear this was no lie, either," he snapped.

"Tony," Dr. Banner warned.

"I know it is difficult to believe. I had a hell of a time convincing Banner over here, but the point of it all is that it's the truth. You want to hear something that makes even less sense? You're a super hero. Well, no, I'm a super hero. You're a super spy who kind of joined us.."

"'Us'?"

"I am Iron Man," Mr. Stark continued, practically barking at Barton to shut up and listen to him.

"He is he Hulk," he pointed to Banner, who sheepishly nodded once in acknowledgement, though clearly he seemed uncomfortable with the title, whatever the hell it meant, Clint thought.

"We were a part of a rag tag group of misfits, of extraordinary people, who together make up a team called the Avengers."

Clint felt an unsettling in his stomach, but swallowed it down.

"There was Captain Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America." This caught Barton's attention, because he recognized the iconic name but could've sworn he'd read all about America's super hero and his demise back during the World Wars-

"-And there was Thor, and he's a demi-god from another planet-"

"He's an actual alien," Banner provided.

"Thor, as in mythology-?"

"Yes," Banner answered. Stark rolled his eyes and continued.

"And there was Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow and an assassin and your partner."

Barton cocked a brow at this, still fighting whatever his stomach was brewing.

"And you. You were Hawkeye, and you were one of us."

That was the final straw, and suddenly Clint had had enough. He pushed past Stark, determined that this was the end of that, until Stark called after him,

"Take one step out of this tent and Barney serves ten years in prison."

* * *

Clint froze, slowly turning to face the man.

"What?"

"See, I didn't take it that you'd believe me so easily-"

"Stark," Banner warned.

"So I did a little research."

"The hell did you say?" Clint snapped.

"I hacked into the records of the circus-someone's been taking a larger cut of their share than they should. Enough that over the years it's become quite a sum, a debt."

Clint cursed under his breath. Barney had done wrong in the past, though Clint entirely blamed their master, Trickshot, and while Barney was trying to clean up, it was a habit hard to break. Especially when everyone in this circus was as corrupt and encouraging of the hustling on the side.

"With what I've collected of your brother, he could spend years in county. You don't have the cleanest record, either." Stark shrugged.

Clint almost decked him then and there.

"Leave Barney out of this. What the hell do you-"

"Don't mistake me. I didn't want to bring Barney into this. But I didn't expect you to believe me exactly right off the bat. The thing is, though, I need you to believe me. I need you to believe me, because I want to go home-back to the real home. Where I haven't caused the massacre of thousands of innocents with my own weapons and where I actually redeem myself for my past mistakes or at least I'm trying to. I need to go back to where someone is waiting for me. I need to go back because I don't belong here-neither does Banner, and, newsflash, neither do you."

Clint shook his head.

"This is my home-"

"No, it's not. You know how I know that? Because I read your file, your 'spy' file, and it says you left here. You walked out because you couldn't handle the corruption and the deceit-"

"I'd never leave Barney-"

"-He left you! To die."

Barton didn't hold back, socking Stark squarely in the jaw. And if he felt any regret about punching the man who held his and Barney's lives both by string, he sure didn't feel any of it.

Banner rushed to help Stark stand, but Stark waved him off. He didn't seem too shaken from the hit-perhaps he expected it. He sure as hell deserved it.

Stark turned his eyes back to Barton.

"Most of all," he continued, as though he'd never been interrupted, "I need you to believe. Because as much as I need to get back, so do you. So do all of us."

"I don't know what you want from me," Clint screamed, hysterically. It was infuriating, talking to this man.

"I need you to accompany us to a ballet."

Clint shook his head. He hadn't heard Stark right.

"What?"

"I need you to come with Banner and I to a ballet."

Clint straightened his shoulders. Great, back to the pranking. Why was he still here, listening to these two again?

"Come with us to this ballet, and I'll personally erase the records on Barney."

That's why.

"You can't-"

"Please," Stark frowned. Banner shrugged, nodding for Clint to not doubt Stark's capabilities.

Clint thought for a moment.

"So…all I have to do is follow you to a ballet?"

Stark hesitated, looking to say more, but finally agreed, "Ya, sure, sure. Just…come with us to a ballet."

Banner seemed to shoot Stark a warning glance, but Stark ignored it.

"It's just one night. It'll be a great show. And, it's in Paris."

Clint nearly choked.

"P-Paris?"

"France, yes," Stark rolled his eyes.

"I'll fly you out myself."

"And if I go…you'll leave Barney alone?"

"I'll do you one better, I'll even leave you alone."

That made up his mind.

"Deal."

* * *

"Clint! There you are! What was that all about? Gary said there were these two strange men-? Clint..?"

Clint's somber face said well enough for Barney to quit talking, which unnerved the older brother further.

"Come on, Clint-you're not getting arrested or something, are you?"

Of course that would be the first conclusion he comes to.

"I'm going to Paris."

"Paris? The across-the-pound Paris?"

"Sure as hell not the Texas one."

Barney scratched his head.

"Alright, when?"

"Tonight."

"Well, we'll start packing-"

"Just me, Barney." Clint scowled.

Barney laughed, confused.

"Clint, I don't understand. Some strange guys come up and you're going to Paris…with them, I presume?"

"It's just for the weekend, maybe a week. I'll be back, Barney. I'm not leaving-"

"Alright."

That took relatively no convincing. Clint frowned.

"Alright?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm a little scorned you didn't invite me, but so long as you bring back a souvenir-"

"-Barney…"

"If you didn't tell me up front why, then that means you can't. Or just won't. And that's fine. You just better be back in a week." Barney winked and left it at that.

Clint smiled, because even if a part of him began to doubt this reality in favor of what those two had told him, he couldn't imagine it.

* * *

_Oh, you've been hiding_

_Hiding out, hiding out_

_Oh, you've been hiding_

_Hiding out, hiding out_

* * *

Clint had ridden in an actual limo to the airport, driven by some skeptical servant of Stark's. Clint didn't dare touch the mini fridge, too afraid Stark would charge him or that everything would somehow melt and he'd wake up on his familiar haystack beside a snoring Barney. As much as he maybe wanted to be back at the comfort of the circus, he didn't mind if this dream lasted a little longer. He'd never been on a plane before.

Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner were already on the jet (A private one, Clint gawked at) and barely acknowledged him when he entered. A flight attendant offered Clint champagne. He regretfully declined-he couldn't stomach it.

The moment the plane took off, Clint felt a lurch in his stomach. But it wasn't a fearful one, or even a sick feeling. It was like nervous twitch, like his muscles couldn't stand to be still. He stood, hoping to relieve himself in the bathroom. Somehow, without realizing it, he ended up at the front of the plane, walking in on the pilot and copilot.

He meant to apologize and quickly walk out, but instead found himself fixated by all the controls. Some looked familiar, though he swore he'd never been inside a plane, no less the front of one.

The pilot was understanding, switching to autopilot and pointing out a few basics controls to Clint. Clint had forgotten for a moment where he was, or where he was going, and by the time it occurred to him that Mr. Stark might not appreciate Clint snooping in his jet, Clint excused himself.

If Mr. Stark had been informed by a stewardess or not on Clint's appearance in the cockpit, he didn't reprimand Clint for it. In fact, Clint could've sworn Stark had smirked at him. Like he knew something Clint didn't.

Clint popped a few sleeping pills and shut his eyes tight for the rest of the half-day flight.

* * *

"You should see this city during the day!" Stark threw back as he led himself, Banner and Clint from the jet. It was a few hours after dusk and Clint couldn't quit yawning, only breaking the stream with the occasional gasp. Paris was nothing like any fields in the Midwest America.

"Come along, then. This particular ballet starts in two hours and I want to see the look on your face when we witness a real show."

Clint spat in offense. The circus was far superior to some girly dance recital.

* * *

Their balcony seats at the theatre looked to Clint like a golden Godiva chocolate box. The seats were red and the balcony itself was too warm for his liking. The suit Mr. Stark had rented for him cost more than his own life savings and felt tight and stiff. The collar was buttoned and a tie hung around his neck like a noose that he would periodically loosen whenever his companions weren't looking.

He shoes squeaked and the cuffs of his sleeves annoyed him. His hair had been greased back and Barton had to resist running a hand through it.

This was the most uncomfortable he'd ever felt. He was dressed like a monkey and was an entire ocean away from his bow and quiver, a sacrifice he'd made for the sake of getting past customs at the airport.

Clint decided to distract himself with conversation. He wasn't exactly warmed up to Mr. Stark, however, so he opted to speak to the more reasonable, he thought, of the two strangers.

"So…you believe Stark," He began, warily. He kept his voice down, hoping to avoid Stark interjecting.

"I do."

"Why?"

Banner didn't hesitate.

"Because he's right."

Clint frowned. That approach wouldn't help convince him any. He might as well play along.

"So, in this other world…where we're all super heroes," Banner smirked at the word, "You're what exactly again? The Hotel-"

"-Hulk," he corrected.

"Which is?"

The doctor smiled briefly.

"The Other Guy."

That answered nothing.

"Alright, you two. Take your seats and enjoy the show."

Stark called from in front of them. Clint sighed and slouched into his seat. "Yeah, wake me when this is over-"

"Sh!"

Clint frowned, rolling his eyes as the theatre dimmed. All he had to do was sit through this show-sleep through, more like it-and when it was all over and done, he'd get one the plane and be home by tomorrow afternoon. He'd feel jetlagged at worst, and he kept reminding himself to stop by the airport gift shop before catching his flight out of here, for Barney's sake.

He closed his eyes for a second before a hand slapped his shoulder, jolting him awake. The doctor was pointing with his eyes to the stage, and Barton spared a glance at it.

Instantly, his eyes were drawn to a dancer, singling her out amongst the crowd leaping on the stage.

"That," the doctor whispered, "is your partner."

* * *

Barton wasn't very educated in any ballet. In fact, he only knew of the Nutcracker and Swan Lake, and just a year ago he'd been informed that Cinderella was in fact a play adaptation as well and not just a Disney movie that he'd seen at a drive in theatre when he was young and ignorant and still living with his parents, who at the time were also still living.

He hadn't finished a book since the summer reading the summer before he and Barney dropped out of school and ran away to the circus, and the last anything that he read all the way through was his contract, which Barney had read beside hind it'd taken them several hours to finally comb through and fully understand what they were signing.

Because of this fact, Clint instantly ruled out that his interest in this play stemmed from the plot, because to be perfectly honest he had no idea what was going on.

And he didn't care enough to ask either the doctor or Stark what it was they were watching.

His focus on the girl, rather woman, also wasn't as easily explained as he might've wished.

She was pretty, yes, beautiful, for sure. She had full lips and gorgeous eyes, even from as far up at Clint was perched could tell. Her skin was milky, smooth, and her hair was a deep red, pulled back into a bun and sleeked to fit her skull.

It was impressive, her flexibility and control. Years of practice had honed her body into almost a grotesque shape of muscle and bone. Clint wouldn't dare say she was unattractive.

But he'd seen prettier.

* * *

So to say he was drawn to her ethereal beauty wasn't it. And even if she was the first woman he'd ever laid eyes on, he still didn't think his attraction to her based from lust.

He was drawn to her like curiosity to a flame. Something about her was familiar and he'd sworn he'd fallen asleep, drifting in one of his strange dreams of late that he swore had flashes of her red hair dancing in the corners of his eyes. The ballet was silent but he swore he heard her voice. The lights were dim save for the blinding stage, but still he remembered fires and a bright sun and a clear sky with nothing beneath him.

"Ever been on something like this?" He hears himself ask, in his mind, and suddenly the theatre is no more and there's just the open sky.

"I've been on a ship before," says a voice he knows is hers.

"You might want to come inside," he quips, and now he sees her and she's giving him a look that challenges him to find any interest in her eyes that declares she actually gives a fuck.

"It'll be easier to breathe," and suddenly there's a large cranking noise and now he feels as uplifted as when he was on that jet of Stark's and she suddenly looks startled, frightened, and she whips her head around and he sees that flash of red as her hair follows.

Then there's a shake at his shoulder and the bright endless sky vanishes and the theatre returns. The doctor is looking curiously at Barton, searching his eyes knowingly as though he suspects. The woman's voice slips from his memory and he can't recall what he said to her or what she said back and he shakes his head and brushes off the doctor.

"Is it over?"

The doctor looks hurt, or disappointed, or both but he nods.

"Yes, it's over."

* * *

In the lobby, Barton seems to be the only one walking at a reasonable pace, ready to leave this stuffy music box and return to the jet.

The doctor takes each step of his hesitantly and Stark is practically dragging his feet, distractedly stopping at every wall mural and arranged flower pot on the way.

Finally, Stark barks up, "Hang on, one moment. I'd like to pay my respect to the company. Come with me, you two, won't you?"

Barton can feel a pool of sweat on his back and prays it won't ruin or stain the suit or else Stark will kill him, and for that very fear he doesn't speak up against Stark's detour. He wants to return home to Barney as soon as possible because he's still ruffled from that out of body experience and he refuses to think on it anymore. He just wants to touch back down on American soil and forget this night.

Banner smiles slightly, catching what Stark's doing and eagerly picks up his pace in pursuit. Now it's Barton's turn to lag from behind.

How they manage to get backstage is beyond Barton. Stark has connections or speaks Russian (He thought it was French, until Banner explains this is a touring Russian dance company) or pays off the security, because then the three of them or stepping over sand bags and behind curtains and Stark is collecting bouquets from unsuspecting dancers which he snatches when they look away, piecing together his own makeshift arrangement as his eyes dart for some target.

His eyes lock on something, but by the time Barton gets in position to see what it is, a door has closed. It's a changing room, with some scribbling on the name plate that Barton can't read.

Stark thrusts the flowers in Barton's hands and pushes him towards the door, aloofly looking away.

"Pay my regards to Miss Romanova-she was fantastic. Tell her Tony sent you, which will get her blood boiling," he shrugs, "or would, rather."

Clint, confused, looks back to Banner.

"What..?! Aren't you both coming in-"

"I think you'll do just fine to get the message across-" Stark winks, further pushing Barton forward.

"You're not still going on about that alternate universe, are-?"

Stark grabs Clint by the shoulders and faces him squarely.

"Inside that room is Miss Natalia Romanova, except you know her as Natasha Romanov-"

"I don't know her at all!"

"-So it's your job to convince her she does."

Stark reaches for the door's handle.

"Me? Why me? I'm not even convinced-shouldn't you be the one to throw your crazed theory at her-"

Stark side-stepped in his way. Around them, couples dressed for the occasion filed from the booths and chairs, talking of the performance and paying no attention to the three men. They looked pleased, satisfied, though the expression did not mirror on Stark's face, who contrary to usual looked in no gaming mood.

"You may be comfortable with your little pick-pocket life as some flimsy side-show act, but you were and are more than that. Where we are from, you use your talents for good, to save the world; not entertain a crowd while you rob them. You want to pretend that the circus is your family, fine-but family never sells one another out and it never forces its own to steal and cheat and lie for them. This may be hard for you to believe, but back where we, you, are really from, we were a family. And we were there for each other, for you, and likewise. And now someone has separated our family and we're trying to get back. Because right now, a piece of our family is on another planet, or left back in the forties, or has trained her whole life as a ballerina in Russia. So the odds aren't looking great-which is why we need everyone in our 'family' to be on board and help us gather our merry band back."

Clint watched Stark, but his face never faulted. Finally, giving on, Clint ran a hand through his hair. It was getting long, he needed to cut it.

"Trust me," Stark mutters, "This way will be more convincing. Perhaps for the both of you."

Barton shakes his head, thinking this prank and these madmen are too much, but before he can push his way out of hit, the door is opened and he's thrown in and then it's shut again.

* * *

Natalia Romanova was dressed in her robe, a flimsy little silk thing that allowed her skin to breathe momentarily after having stripped from that suit and skirt. Her desk had been adorned with flowers and cards from fans and friends alike, and she had smiled through reading each and every one. She was well loved within her dance company, and had just thanked her choreographer moments ago, who had brought her a photograph of the company, signed by everyone and gifted to her.

When the door opened, she'd assumed it was Alexander returning, having forgotten something or announcing a cast appearance on stage or some client or other who was important enough to warrant a personal greeting and acceptation of some gift or gratitude or other.

What she wasn't expecting was some scruffy man who looked out of place in his own suit, let alone her dressing room, holding a mismatched bouquet and wide eyed with terror that appalled her.

She stood quickly, closing her robe tightly as she crossed her arms about her chest, glaring at the intruder before quickly demanding at him why he was in her dressing room.

She had initially done this in her native tongue, but quickly caught on by his blank stairs that he didn't understand.

She asked again, in French, this time lowering her voice slightly, to appear less threatening.

Again, he said nothing. She tried again, impatiently, but he cut her off mid-sentence, babbling,

"S-sorry, I don't-"

"English?" She tried, her accent a little rusty but still impressive, having not been to London in several months.

He nods slowly and glances at the flowers.

"They're, ah, for you," he awkwardly adds.

"American!" Natalia adds, her brows rising. She hasn't been to the Americas in several years, a quick trip to New York that had left her curious for the rest of the country but never fulfilling that thirst.

The man nods again and fidgets with his hand cuffs. Is he an agent of some sort, she thinks. Perhaps he's the new guy, or inexperienced or perhaps he's just a fan with enough cash to land himself an audience.

There's an awkward silence between them until finally they both move to speak, at the same time.

"No, you go ahead first," he offers, but the brief look in his eyes shows he regrets the offer immediately.

She just nods, and continues, "You…you're with a company or..?"

"Ah, I'm…representing Stark Industries!" He babbles. She recognizes the name-a large American company that has come up in several of the discussions of parties she'd attended recently, but it still leaves much to be left explained.

"Mr. Stark sends his regards…your performance was incredible," he's rambling, and again he outstretches the flowers towards her.

"These are fore you," he mumbles.

She accepts the bouquet and finds a card stashed into the petals. It's addressed to another dancer, and the man seems to catch on to that fact when she skeptically looks back to him.

"They…ran out… " He mutters, and she's not sure what he's referring to.

"Sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

He scratches the back of his neck, hesitant to offer it. Perhaps he's worried she'll press charges.

"Barton," he finally offers. The name strikes her as familiar, and she gives his face a good, hard look. He keeps looking down so she can't make out his features very well and his eyes are a mystery, but he looks possibly familiar, or in any case goofy.

As if reading her mind, he runs a hand through his hair and the illusion of the gel breaks, ruffling his short hair as it stands up straight, no longer greased to his scalp.

She takes a deep breath and crossed her arms again.

"Thank you, for the flowers," she motions to them, but her voice is forceful and what she doesn't say but is left understood is that she's asking him to leave.

He nods, understanding, and turns, but stops to hesitate and glances back.

She catches a glimpse of his profile and she hardly hears what he says next because she knows that face.

"Do you believe in alternate universes…other realities?"

She's never even thought about them.

"No," she blatantly responds.

The man nods slowly, and then seems to laugh to himself.

"I'm not with Stark Industries."

She's still trying to glimpse his eyes, which refuse to look up from his hands.

"I mean, I'm with Stark, at this moment. The Tony Stark-"

That name annoys her, for some reason.

"-And he's just outside this door, or should still be," he mutters. Does she even understand him? He's mumbling quite a lot and while her speech is flawless, maybe he's giving her too much credit and she's actually not as eloquent in English as he thinks she is, but then again neither is he.

"Along with Dr. Banner, but…it's alright if you've never heard of him. I haven't."

You'd have to be a scientist to ever have, he thinks.

"And…and they approached me, much like I am to you now, twenty four hours ago with this…ridiculous theory," he laughs, "that…that they, and you, and I-we're all from some different time continuum. That we were transported to this alternate timeline…" and he's giggling now, because this sounds insane and she hasn't said anything.

"It gets better!" He offers, his voice rising in confidence because this is all some big joke to him and she should really feel worried but doesn't.

"Because…they went on to explain, to me, that in this alternate universe…we were all some bunch of super heroes!"

He chokes up a little, trying not to cackle to himself but damn he could go for a beer right about now or something stronger. Still, she says and does nothing.

"Stark is…I don't remember what Stark is, Money Man or something-" he chuckles, "And Banner can transform into a beast or a bear…I don't know, 'The Other Guy' he called it-some evil twin.?"

They really should have done a better job explaining to him.

"Oh, and Captain America was with us!"

He winks, "But I guess that doesn't appeal to you," because what stir of patriotism is a Russian going to feel for a man named Captain America?

"Do you know Norse Mythology? I don't, not really. But I know Thor, the God of Thunder…apparently, we have him too?"

He's certifiably insane, he thinks. He wonders if her room has one of those secret desk buttons that she can press and security will barge in at any moment. He prays the American embassy can save his ass from the French law, but doubts it.

"And you're probably wondering, well, with guys like that, who were we? Well, we were spies-"

He pauses to see if she reacts, but still she doesn't.

"I mean, we were partners. I think," he frowns, "I think that's why Stark sent me in here…he thinks, because we were partners, that maybe that bond or something will help either of us remember, because him and Banner seemed convinced and they're trying to convince…" he trails off.

Natalia still is looking at him with a blank expression, and a part of him believes she could be a spy. He can't read her worth a damn.

In any case, she must be good at poker.

"They called you the Black Widow," and finally her eye brows perk up and it's something, though not much.

He admires her face and he can't deny she looks familiar, but probably because he's seen a thousand faces like hers in the crowds across America.

"…and your hair used to be shorter," he whispers, and she almost doesn't catch it. She reaches for her aforementioned hair, which she had released from its bun and brushed through a few times but still needed to wash to fully remove the gel.

She looks flustered, but he continues to stare at her, forgetting everything he was supposed to say, if there was anything he was really meant to say anyway.

"…I'm sorry-" He finally offers, turning to leave.

"Clint, wait-"

And he stops, because he never told her his first name.

* * *

"You think this will work?"

Stark shrugs, watching the cast strip of costumes and laugh amongst themselves. He's guarding Natasha's door, just in case someone tries to interrupt, or Barton tries to make a run for it.

"Not sure," he finally answers Banner, who nervously leans against the wall. Banner sighs, rolling his eyes.

"I'm putting my faith in their relationship," Stark adds, looking at Banner straight on.

"That's what I did with you."

Banner thinks a moment, then smirks.

"And then what? If either of them finally remembers, or they both do? What then?"

Stark doesn't answer.

He's going off on a whim that if he can convince their team, that it'll break this spell or nightmare, or whatever, and they'll return home. Because as much of his life, his real life, as he can remember, he can't for the life of him piece what happened in those final moments that sent them here and erased their memory. He's not sure if this is time travel or a mirage, but it's not how things are supposed to be and he'll fix that.

* * *

"…please?"

He doesn't catch what she just said because his mind is still replaying his name being called by her.

"What did you just call me?"

"B-Barton," she catches herself, "y-you said…you were saying!"

She motions for him to continue, impatiently. He just stares at her.

"This other world…continue, please!" She hugs herself again and refuses to look at him. Clint nods slowly and tries to think of everything Stark and Banner ever told him.

"They mentioned…we were here, in this universe that we're apparently not from, because…of the gods or something? Loki, I think they said?"

He feels uncomfortable saying that word and she looks as unnerved as he, but he shakes his head and can remember no more.

"Look, they're just outside the door, and I could ask them to come in and tell you all about it if you think you'd believe them-"

"I don't."

He nods. Well, he didn't either.

"But I believe you," she adds. That surprises him.

"I don't want to hear them. Tell me more about what you remember."

He shakes his head.

"That's it-I don't. I…I don't believe it," he finally admits to himself. "I don't think I can. I remember my life, and I remember living with my brother and my parents until they d-died," he stutters, "and after that, running awake to the circus with my brother. I can tell you about every show I've ever performed in because I remember them that well, and I can tell you everything you've ever wanted to know about the circus. And I thought I knew everything there was to know about me until a day ago, when my brother approaches me with the proposition that perhaps I don't want to live and die under a circus tent, and that night I'm having this crazy theory thrown at me and two strangers tell me my brother tried to kill me in this other world, when twelve hours ago he was just looking into my best interests and wanting me to get out of this miserable life as a carnie-!"

This isn't what she asked to hear, but it's all he has to say.

"And now I'm in Paris! I've never even been to Canada, though I've been by the border plenty enough, yet now I'm here in fucking Paris, France! And I'm at a ballet, in some monkey suit, and if Barnes ever found out he'd never let me live it down-!"

"Barnes is your brother?"

He slowly nods, hesitating before picking up,

"…And when I saw you, for a second maybe I did believe those two lunatics outside this room. Because you look familiar and because I thought I'd heard your voice before I'd even met you, but I don't want to believe them. I can't."

"Because your brother," she half offers to him and to herself, a small whisper. He slowly nods.

She's a pretty little thing and to still be listening to him after all this says wonders of her character. But he's overstayed his visit and now he's wasting both their times. He needs to get back to Barney.

"I'm…sorry," he finishes, and regardless of whether she calls out to him or not, he needs to leave. He makes his way towards the door, but it's opened before he even reaches it.

"We need to leave-" It's Stark, and he looks irritated.

Barton says nothing, but quickly nods. He didn't need to be told twice.

"Wait!" Natalia calls out again, and Barton spares her a glance because Stark is blocking the door anyway.

It's that moment that she catches his eyes and they're grey and light and she's seen them before.

* * *

"How did we meet?"

Stark scratches his chin and begins to answer, but Natalia cuts him off.

"Clint. How did we meet?"

Barton shakes his head.

"Stark never told me-"

"I don't know that one," Stark admits, and Clint looks at him with surprise, because after having fabricated every other detail, he'd suspected Stark would have that covered as well.

"It wasn't explicitly revealed in either of your files," Stark shrugs, "-when I hacked into them at the time."

Clint looks back to Natalia. "I don't know…sorry."

He turns to leave again, but she yells back at him, "That's it? That's the best you've got in trying to convince me?"

Barton sighs.

"I told you. I don't remember…I don't believe!" Now he's irritated, because the fact she's playing along with this whole charade just prolongs it. "If you want to hear more about it, ask Stark here-"

"He doesn't know how we met."

"And neither do I! So no one does!"

"…I do," she whispers. Her accent clears up a little, and she stutters out, "At least…a bit. You said my hair was shorter then-what did you mean?"

He shrugs.

"I don't really know."

"You meant you remembered seeing it shorter-"

"Maybe," he whines.

"Doesn't it?"

"Sure!" God, this is pointless! Just yell things she wants to hear, he thinks.

"You also said you've heard my voice before-"

"I thought I did. Hearing it now, though, I can't remember. It was some fantasy, I don't-"

"And I knew your name!"

So, she had noticed.

"That doesn't mean much-"

"-But it could?! Tell me how we met!"

"I don't remember!" He yelled, and he knew this was going to draw attention to her dressing room, what with Stark still silently propping the door open.

"Try to!" She yells, and out of pure anger and irritation, she throws the bouquet down and it hits the nearest desk on its way, which rattles the table and knocks a vase over. The crash is crisp and loud and the shattered shards spread across the floor in a mix of water and stems.

Barton stares at the mess for a moment before responding.

"I…don't remember how we met. But I knew who you were before then," he pauses, adding, "I think." He glances up at her. "And I think you knew who I was, before then, too."

She slowly nods, and he lips twitch, threatening a sad smile.

"…I was your target. And you had spared me. I owed you a debt for that…" Her eyes come alive with tears and she's beaming up at Clint, but he looks frozen in horror because he doesn't recognize her or anything.

"And then I joined Shield-"

Hadn't Stark mentioned that? Or not?

"-And we were partners."

She clasped a hand over her mouth, and something seemed to overwhelm her as she fell to her seat, gripping the back of the chair briefly before glancing back up to Clint.

"Clint!" She looked to Stark, recognizing, and back to Clint, but her smile faltered when she did not see the same recognition reflected in Barton's eyes as her own.

Stark sighed, between the two.

"Natasha," he finally supplied, and she whipped her head to face him again.

"Stark…Tony, Clint doesn't remember-"

Now Clint felt out of place, like everyone was in on something that he wasn't because he had sworn a moment ago that Natalia….Natasha…had been in as much disbelief as he had been. And it was like a joke, that suddenly he was, again, the only one who didn't remember something that apparently did exist.

"Natasha," Stark warned again, and suddenly she was standing, looking almost angry.

"Why doesn't Clint remember?"

"I'm right here-" Clint offered, angry.

"How come I remember and he doesn't?!" She yelled, and she sounded desperate.

Like she couldn't handle loosing Clint again.

Again?

"I-"

"He doesn't believe," Stark muttered.

"Look," Clint began, "I tagged along, just like you wanted, and I talked to Natalie-Natasha. And it seemed to have worked great-she remembers. But, see, I'm not so convinced. I'm not your guy, so just let me go back to the circus and you can go find the rest of your jolly family-"

"Clint, what're you talking about..? Clint, please believe me, you're one of us-"

"Saying my name over and over won't change anything, sweetheart."

Banner suddenly stepped into the room, as frantic and hastening as Stark had been.

"We need to leave. Now."

"Natasha, we can talk about this on the go," Stark warned. "We need to leave. Now," he reiterated.

Natasha, still distraught, nodded, stepping after Stark.

Clint shook his head.

"No. I'm not going anywhere with you bunch anymore. You're taking me to an airport, and then I'm taking the first flight out of here for Louisiana-"

"-Change of plans. You're still coming with us. And we are leaving, but not for," Stark cringed, "Louisiana."

Clint shook his head.

"You asked, no, forced me to attend one ballet. One ballet-"

"Right, think of this as Act II."

* * *

Clint wishes he put up more of a fight because in all honesty, he really wanted nothing more than to brute his way from the theatre to the airport. Except Stark had the money and offered transportation and knew this city and the language and still had Barney's fate on a whim.

For those reasons, but mostly only the latter, Clint followed Stark and Banner and now Natasha, who a minute ago had been Natalia, as the four of them weaved throw the dancers and crew. Several people greeted or praised Natasha as they made their way through, and she would politely accept their appraisal and then carry on. Clint was amazed at how she was handling herself, for moments ago she looked ready to breakdown.

As rushed as they appeared, each one of them managed to hastily walk through the lobby without causing a panic. Barton was completely baffled, because here was the star of the ballet walking around in nothing but a robe, casually in the company of three strange men who screamed that they were up to something.

Clint also wondered if someone was chasing them, and whether that was their reason for leaving so quickly.

* * *

Stark called up his valet and under a minute, Barton found himself crammed into a limo with Banner beside him and Stark across from him.

Natasha stared at him from her seat, her face in a mixture of interest and pain.

It was quiet at first, before Clint finally broke it.

"Where exactly are we going?"

Stark seemed to think on it before responding, "Jarvis?"

Clint frowned, turning to Banner. Was his name Jarvis?

Without warning, a fifth voice spoke up, seemingly from the car itself.

"Yes, sir."

Clint was the only one surprised.

"How's that list going I sent you?"

"I've located three of the five names you requested. A miss Maria Hill resides in New York City, New York. A Dr. Jane Foster currently is stationed at a research facility in Baltimore, Maryland. A Phillip Coulson resides in Buenos Aires, Argentina."

Stark didn't seemed pleased with the information the stoic voice presented, but he continued.

"The final two?"

"A Dr. Selvigg has been traced to three possible conventions currently-scanning security footage for a match is occurring."

"And the last?"

"Nick Fury whereabouts remain unknown. Are you certain that is his real name?"

Stark didn't answer.

"Right. Thank you, Jarvis."

"What happened?" Natasha snapped, turning sharply to Stark.

Stark shrugged.

"I don't remember."

"Why the hell are we here?"

"Natasha, we don't know…" Banner offered, trying to calm her down.

"Did anyone else hear that?" Clint muttered, still perplexed over the robotic voice. Surely that wasn't the car speaking! Was he in some television show?! Was this Knight Rider?

"Why the hell are we here and how come we remember everything and why doesn't he?" Natasha snapped, again returning her attention to Clint. Clint frowned. He was getting real tired of this shit.

"Stop the car."

Stark whipped his head to face Barton, who hadn't sounded this threatening or serious since before he'd decked Stark back under the tent.

"Clint-"

"Stop this God damn car, Stark!"

No one said anything.

"I humored you. I went with you to Paris and hell, I even pitched your crazy ass story to this lady. And you all must be in on some joke, or maybe you're all just crazy and finally giving in to it, but I don't have anything to do with this! I don't know what any of you are talking about and I don't understand how I'm involved-"

"-you're involved because you're one of us-"

"-But I'm not, am I? I don't remember like you all do."

"You were remembering," Natasha pleads.

Barton shakes his head.

"No. No, none of this makes sense to me and I want out. Now, Stark."

Stark eyed Barton, finally mumbling, "Clint…"

"I'll take prison over this. Hell, Barney can hate me from here til hell, but I won't sit through another damn minute of you three yelling at me to-"

His sentence was cut short when the car hit impact.

* * *

_I take it too hard_

_You don't even mean it_

_I'm dying for your love_

* * *

Natasha comes to almost immediately. Stark, beside her, is wide alert and gripping at anything he can, which includes her hand. She yanks it back and looks across from her at Banner, who is settling his glasses properly before he, too, turns his attention to the window as has Stark.

Natasha looks to Clint, who looks unconscious with his head slumped against his shoulder.

"Banner!" She snaps, and the doctor looks beside him, quickly checking the pulse, before sighing in relief.

"He's fine."

Natasha leans forward, as though she needs to see for herself, while Stark fumbles with the door.

"I think we have company."

"Friend or Foe?" Natasha snaps, pressing her fingers under Clint's jaw for a pulse.

Stark smiles at her.

"Put on your rain coat. A storm is coming."

There's a playfulness in his eyes and she catches it. She knows exactly what he means.

Banner, too, catches on, whispering to himself,

"Thor!"

Natasha lays Clint down, once Banner and Stark exit the car. She'll join them in a moment, but Barton still hasn't woken and she wants to make sure he's alright.

She sits back and sighs, wondering what's going on outside but more importantly what's going on in general. Where are they? That somehow the clock has been rewound for all of them and that Clint still hasn't remembered that. That they, at least Stark and Banner and herself, still have their memories is proof enough that whatever life they lived before existed-so what does that make this one? An illusion? A dream? And they can't wake from it, and Barton is so engulfed by it that he doesn't believe they need to wake up?

"Romanov, you might want to see this."

Natasha hisses under her breadth, because she hates having to leave Clint but he looks peacefully asleep so maybe she can.

She slides out from the car and follows Stark and Banner's eyes to look up at the sky.

She's no astrologist or scientist, but what she's looking at doesn't look natural.

"Clint's still out," she mentions.

"So is Happy," Stark responds, and Natasha feels a bit remorseful that the driver is being wrapped into all this. When they return, she'll personally buy him some coffee. For everything Stark put him through that he doesn't even know about.

If they make it back, she corrects herself.

* * *

Thunder cracks through the sky and a trail of lightning immediately follows. The wind picks up and the howling of it nearly shatters whatever glass hasn't already been broken by the impact of the storm.

And it seems almost in an instant that there, before them, lies a circle of runes, burned into the ground, and standing in the center is a familiar face Natasha did not expect to see in this life again.

"If the news I bore was not so ill, I would happily greet thee, my friends." His voice is solemn and he sounds heavy with regret.

"Alas, I believe we need to speak."

"I'll say," Stark frowns.

"Who the hell is that?"

Everyone turns around to face Barton, stumbling from the car with a hand to his head, applying pressure to the bump that is quickly bruising.

"Clint-"

"Barton!" Thor beams, eyeing between his friends.

"It had been a sore sight to see thy lady companionless, but you are here indeed! This warms my heart! Now only is the Captain missing-"

"Who are you?" Barton mumbles, looking between the others. Thor, confused, turns to Natasha.

"Do my friends not recognize me?"

"We do," Stark explains. "Barton over here…"

But Clint stops listening, shaking his head. "No, no, not another God damn one of you! He believes you? Who is this, then? Hm? Captain America!"

"Have your eyes failed you? Do I not look to be myself?" Thor asked, convinced Barton could not see, therefore identify, him.

Stark sighed, "Of really only two options, you think he looks like Captain America? Try again, Mr. Deductive Reasoning."

"…Thor? This is the God of Thunder?"

"I am," Thor boasted.

Barton stumbled backwards, still shaking in disbelief.

"No, that's enough. I'm going home now. It's been a hell of a night, and you all are crazy! Enjoy making up stories amongst yourselves!"

"Man of Iron, I do not understand. Why is Barton so…dismissing?"

"He doesn't remember," Stark frowned, "And how do you?"

Thor narrowed his eyes, "I believe this to be the work of my brother, if not directly than by some part. This…other world he has designed, cast us to-it cannot be explained lightly. I did not suspect any difference, but dreams were my allies that revealed his intentions and I now remember. I sought out the rainbow bridge to cross to your realm to find you, my friends, for I do believe this involves us all."

"So…you do or don't remember how or why we're here?"

Thor sighed.

"I do not."

"But you suspect Loki had something to do with this?"

"I do."

Natasha cursed. "The last thing I remember, the last real memory I have, is of being at Stark's Tower. And there was a call, by Fury himself I think, but I…I don't remember what he said."

Banner nodded, "Yeah, I remember that too...Is there a reason we can't remember beyond that? Like what exactly happened that sent us…here?"

Thor shrugged.

"Perhaps my brother did not wish for us to remember his involvement, or our dilemma."

"In case it had some way of helping us return," Stark moaned, more so annoyed with that damned trickster god.

"Did you mention something about dreams?"

Everyone turned to face Barton, who now leaned against the trunk of the dented car, trying to piece what everyone said.

Thor nodded slowly.

"It's just…I've been having…weird dreams, lately. These past few weeks, really-"

"What of?" Stark cut in.

Barton shrugged.

"I…didn't really know. If I had to guess…" He hesitated, because he knew the second he spoke the word, he'd doubt himself all over again and he'd slowly begin to suspect that maybe this band of crazy was right. "…you guys."

Natasha seemed to brighten with hope, but Clint gave away nothing on his face. He was still skeptical, and he prayed she'd stop looking at him like he was going to suddenly remember her, or any of them.

Stark dragged a hand down his face.

"Right, I need coffee. Anyone else? Is Happy up yet? Let's find the nearest Starbucks-Paris has one of those, right?"

* * *

Happy sits baffled at the back of the plane, laid out on a cot as stewardesses attend to him. He doesn't understand what hit the car and caused him to black out, and he also doesn't understand how Tony can so calmly summon the airport transport to lift them back to his jet. He doesn't even ask where the newest cosplay clown addition came from. He didn't ask questions when he picked up the circus performer, and he got the hint not to mention the ballerina as well.

Natasha was now dressed, thanks to a suit Pepper kept onboard in case of emergency, and had seated herself between Thor and Clint. While she leaned towards the later, she also kept her hand from his (a restraint that on impulse she found to be difficult) and remained aware of his distrust and space.

Stark gasped between chugs of coffee (Crappy and black, despite several packets of cheap creamers) while Banner faced a window, as though willing himself anywhere but here.

"Right, so our plan of action is..?"

Stark opened the floor to discuss, but no one spoke up.

"Come on, you always complained I talked too much. Here's your chance to overrule me."

"You can start by taking me home-"

"Not you, Water for Elephants. You're in this for the long haul."

"Was that a circus joke?"

"If Loki is the source of the problem-"

"-suspected-"

"-then why not find him? Force him to revert all this!"

"Loki has been…lost."

"You killed your brother? In a few days, you kill the very brother we've been fighting for, quite literally, years-"

"My brother is not demised!" Thor sighed, his eyes heavy with a sadness not spoken, and Clint quickly realized what the others had not. Thor had gone through much more than simply piecing a few dreams together. There had been a confrontation.

"Loki is your brother?"

Thor looked up at Barton, everyone turning to face him as well. Thor smiled sadly.

"I forget, my friend, that nothing that transpired reaches you yet…You know nothing of Loki….or the grief he caused you," Thor added, mumbling, "and for that, I'm almost grateful. Yes, Loki is my brother."

Barton shot a glance to Natasha, thinking perhaps she understood what Thor meant. She looked down quickly and Barton ignored it for the most part.

"Well…" Barton thought a moment, shifting in his chair, "I have a brother too, you know."

Thor frowned, "This I did not know," and turning to Stark, he added, "was this so where we come from?"

Stark rolled his eyes.

"He's the same Barton, big guy, he just doesn't remember it as so. But, yes, he had a brother." Stark waved it off. "It was…briefly mentioned in his file. A minor detail, he never spoke about it…to any of us, anyway," he added, glancing at Natasha who glared in return.

"And he means a lot to me-" Barton continued. "He's my big brother, but I have to look out for him. Especially when he gets into trouble, because even if he thinks he's only affecting himself…he's not. Where he's involved, so am I."

Barton glanced at Stark, and Tony quickly understood Barton was referring to the overlooked detail of leverage that had forced Barton on this ordeal in the first place.

"And you think you're protecting him, your brother, by not confronting him. By cleaning up the trail of mess he leaves behind. But, it's only hurting him. You have to…you've got to call 'em out sometimes, brothers. Because you care, you know what I'm saying?"

Natasha and Banner shared a look that revealed they didn't understand a word of what Barton had said. Stark ordered another glass of liquor.

Thor, however, nodded.

"I understand. But, this does not mean I know where my brother is. I am afraid he has abandoned our father's hall in favor of exile, no doubt to plot his revenge."

Clint settles back into his chair, frowning in his failure before announcing his resignation to the bathroom.

* * *

Once he'd excused himself, Barton filled the sink to the brim, securing the drain, and dunked his head into the water.

Flashes of blue and light returned and he felt his mind being strained; pulled and pricked at. Endless knowledge that made no sense seemed to flow through him until he resurfaced, gasping, as the images faded.

The rush was painful, was twisted, and without hesitation he returned. He heard voices speak to him, barking orders and asking questions in sly, distrustful voices, yet willingly he gave answers.

Barton threw himself back, slamming against the wall before sliding to the floor, gripping at his head. It hurt, like he'd just been hit on impact, and he suddenly felt tired. Like he hadn't slept in days.

There was a knock at the door and Clint faintly heard Natasha's voice calling after him. He blinked but couldn't clear his mind. Everything was dark, but not the same. He wasn't in the airplane's bathroom anymore, but rather a hall. A dimly lit metal walkway, with rafters and pipes-and someone was behind him.

In a flash he had drawn a bow and arrow, and it was the least foreign feeling he'd experienced all day. Except, in this vision he had taken aim, and his target was a person.

Clint had never shot at a person before. Not with such killing intent, such hatred as that which was boiling in him. He'd shot a target set upon a showgirl's head plenty of times, but never a heart.

And worse, he saw the flash of red. He knew this target. It was Natasha.

The he felt his body twitch, the memory of the muscles as he lunged and gripped at her, and he felt the surge of pain where she bit his arm. Then the world spun and the pain surged in his forehead and he heard the door click open as Natasha rushed in.

"Nat..?" He asked weakly. He wasn't sure if this was in his vision or in person.

"Clint! Clint, what's wrong..?"

Barton's eyes rolled back just as he muttered one final word.

"Tesseract…"

* * *

_You take it too hard_

_When I don't even feel it_

_'Cause you're paying for my love_

* * *

When Clint came to it, the first thing he noticed was Natasha looming over him. She had a hand hovering just above his brow, like she was hesitating to touch him or not. Her face didn't show much, but her eyes danced with worry. Clint blinked twice, but he still felt so tired, and allowed himself to slip back into unconscious.

Images of Barney teasing him met him in sleep. Barney had crossed his arms across his chest and was laughing and whistling to a tune Clint didn't recognize.

Then Barney steps aside and Natasha is standing there, looking down at him and frozen in transition from pity and mercy, with malice slowly retreating from her face as it relaxes.

Then she's landing a blow to his head and he jolts awake.

"Clint?!"

Natasha jumps up when Clint throws himself into a sitting position, sweat soaking his back and brow. He's breathing heavily and he shakes his head to clear the pain.

Natasha watches his eyes intently, so much that she's the only one who catches the faint trace of electric blue that fades from his pupils as he blinks himself into awareness.

"Barton? Try to calm down, breathe slowly. How do you feel?"

Clint takes the doctor's advice, trying to settle his breath-he doesn't pay any attention to Natasha, who sits in horror beside him, the ghost images of blue in Clint's grey eyes still haunting her. He nods finally, when he's calmed down, and Banner stands.

"-sha?"

Natasha jumps aware, looking to Banner.

"Are you coming, Natasha? Let's give Clint a minute to breathe…"

Natasha nods slowly but she's not all there. Clint and Banner both notice, but say nothing. She follows the doctor out of the room, and Clint curls his chest to his knees and tries to remember.

* * *

"Banner-" Natasha warns, just as they exit the back room where Clint has slept for several hours. The plane is expected to land in another two or so. Banner stops, just outside the door leading to the others, and Natasha refuses to meet his eyes as she hastily whispers,

"When I found Clint, when he collapsed in the bathroom, he…he had said 'Tesseract'…a-and I'd seen something, but I didn't think I had until just now, when…I saw it again."

Banner shifted on his feet.

"Which was..?"

"His eyes," she confessed uncomfortably, "I was…I was thinking, do you suppose…that we're here because of the Tesseract? That it has something to do with this…world, we're in?"

Banner frowned, then shook his head.

"It's a possibility, but…Selvigg's studies, if I recall correctly, perceived the Tesseract to be a condensed energy source-a powerful one, but raw energy at that. But, then again, we humans probably couldn't tap all the potential of the Tesseract…"

"It opened a portal before. What if it opened a portal to the past this time-and what if Loki changed it." Natasha brightened. "Rogers! What if Loki got ahold of the Tesseract, and used it to open a portal back in time, to when the humans found the Tesseract-back with Hydra and Rogers! If he, if Loki stole the Tesseract from then, then that would alter the course of history…"

"The Captain never would have crashed that plane in the arctic…" Banner mused.

"-Shield never would have been created, so Clint and I never were recruited…"

"…Thor never was banished to earth…"

"…Stark never was held hostage and forced to build Iron Man…"

"…I never became the other guy…"

The door opened suddenly, causing the duo to jump. Stark solemnly looked on at the other two.

"How's Barton?"

Natasha took a deep breath.

"He's awake, but we have something we need to talk about."

* * *

It didn't take long for Natasha and Banner to express their theory. There was a long pause before Stark started questioning holes in the theory, all the while Thor said nothing as he contemplated the severity of the accusation.

"So, you think in our time, the real time, Loki got his hands on the Tesseract and created a portal to the past, and he altered it. Except, if he had altered it from the beginning, then why do we remember? Wouldn't we all be just as mindlessly accepting of the past as everyone else?"

"In theory, one who traveled through the past would remember. Perhaps we had gone through the portal with Loki..? That might explain why we still have memories of a past that, essentially, doesn't exist anymore..?"

Natasha bit her lip.

"Would that explain why Barton doesn't remember? Maybe...maybe he didn't go through the portal with us?"

Banner sighed, mumbling to himself, "This would make more sense if we could just remember what happened right before everything…changed."

Stark shook his head, addressing Natasha. "He remembers, he knows. Barton's had the dreams, just like Thor, just like we all have, I suspect. The memories are there, he's just refusing to see them, to believe them."

"But why? Why is Clint so much more skeptical than the rest of us?" Banner questioned.

"I wonder," Thor finally spoke up, "Is it really that Barton can't remember..? Or is it that he's forgetting."

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken finally by Stark, "What do you mean, Power Circuit?"

"I think I understand what you mean," Banner acknowledged, nodding in Thor's direction. "Where are our memories coming from? The memories from the past that didn't actually happen? Maybe it's not time at all. I don't understand the Tesseract, and I don't pretend to know time and space, but…But what if this is another dimension, a different time line."

"-An alternate universe, we've been over this before," Stark hastened.

"-Yes, so imagine this is another dimension. And Loki transported us all here, in place of the us that already existed in this world. Our memories are competing with the us who already were living our lives, and we're calling on our memories from the other time line, trying to replace what we know of this world-"

"You're not making very much sense, doctor."

"Alas, I, too, am lost in your speech."

"What I mean is, what if something is hindering Barton's memories, Barton's original self, and stopping the original him from competing against the new him-"

The door clicks open and everyone stops spit-balling theories for a moment. Barton stands, leaning against the frame of the door and looking pale, but awake.

"Clint-" Natasha stands up, but Barton doesn't acknowledge her.

"I…I had a dream-"

"You remember?!"

Clint shook his head, still refusing to look at any of them.

"I…it's fuzzy, I don't remember much of it, but…but I still had a dream. And don't think for a second I believe any of you. But…but I'll accompany you, because as much as I don't believe I'm one of you, I'm starting to believe you all don't belong here. And I'd like to help you get back to your…" he couldn't say home, "where you came from. So, I'll go wherever y'all want to go. I'll try to help, in whatever way I can."

"Barton…"

"-But I won't believe you," He warned, finally nodding in emphasis with his finger pointed at Stark. Natasha sighed. At least he was willing to come with them now.

Stark mumbled something along the lines that it didn't matter whether they had Clint's blessing or not-he would have dragged the marksman along with them regardless. Natasha remarked it was a comfort knowing Clint was willing to help. He didn't answer her.

"So, where is our destination?"

Thor spoke up to answer that.

"If we are in agree that my brother in the source of our problem, then it is he we must seek out for."

"B-but you said he was lost..?"

"Then we shall start searching for him where he was seen last."

"Which was..?"

"In Asgard."

Nearly everyone tensed, save for Clint who, baffled, looked about the room.

"Is that a city in Europe..?"

* * *

_Oh, you're so far from the blame_

_'Cause your money is paid_

_Oh, your money is paid_

_Oh your money is paid_

_It's paid, it's paid_

* * *

"Heimdall!"

"Wait, let me get this straight..?"

"Heimdall, do you hear me?"

The plane had landed not but a minute ago, on a private stretch of land Stark himself owned. Happy had been sent home for the day the moment the plane had touched ground-he still was woozy from the accident. Thor had led the remainder of them several yards from the plane, or anything, to a back landing strip not being used. There, they stood in a circle and awaited as Thor screamed at the sky.

Everyone looked calmly on, save for Clint who was skeptical and jittery and had no idea what was about to happen.

"Heimdall-" By the third call, Thor was met with a boom of thunder and the wind picked up, circling in a dangerous formation above him. Stark looked bored. Banner stood at attention, and Natasha shifted from heel to hip.

"Wh-where are we going? What's he doing?"

"We're going to Asgard," Natasha repeated, like that answered everything.

"Have you…have any of you ever been?"

She shrugged.

"No."

Clint nodded.

"So, Thor's what…summoning some lightning for us to ride or..?"

Thor turned to give Barton a look that questioned his intelligence.

"I do not believe you can ride lightning, my friend. No, Heimdall shall summon the Bifrost, and we will take that to Asgard, of course."

"Of course," Clint sighed.

Before he could ask any more questions as to why the weather was so strange and who was Heimdall or what the hell was the Bifrost, a blinding light seemed to lift Clint and in an instant, the rolling hills and flat concrete runways had disappeared, zapped away to be replaced with a blinding array of colors and light that Barton had to close his eyes in fear of having them burned from him.

* * *

"Do not cringe, friend Barton! You are in Asgard! In one piece, might I also note!"

Barton blinked his eyes open.

"Was there doubt that we'd arrive in one piece?"

Thor didn't answer, instead smiling and clapping Clint on the back before stepping off.

Barton stood in a circular room, rimed with gold and looked much like the inside of a telescope, he thought. He was so mesmerized by the room, twisting around it and gawking at gold (This room alone could set him and Barney for life! Clear them off all their debts, pay off any of Barney's mistakes! They wouldn't need a future, an education), he didn't noticed everyone filing outside until Natasha whistled at him.

"Clint-"

Clint nearly tripped over himself, running to catch up with the others as they exited the room, only to stand on a bridge of pixelated colors, with light dancing up and down. Before Clint stood a city so fair, so majestic and foreign that he was lost for words to describe it. The air was pure to breathe and the light came from no sun-it merely was there, and it lit the city with a glow that caught every glimmer of gold and silver and color.

"Welcome, friends, to Asgard!"

Stark muttered something, and Banner rubbed at his eyes. Even Natasha looked impressed, smiling in a way Clint hadn't seen her do yet. Clint himself had to admit, after seeing this it was difficult to not believe in at least the possibility of other worlds-wasn't this one?

"Heimdall!" Thor called for again, and Clint rolled his eyes.

"Why do you keep calling for this-?"

"Heimdall!"

"-yes, him-"

"You returned, Thor. And with company,"

Clint gawked, turning to meet a giant of a man, with dark skin and fiery eyes. Thor, the only one not intimidated by the presence of the newcomer, smiled warmly at him.

"Heimdall, I present to you-"

"I know who they are," Heimdall cut him off, eyeing each of the humans before settling his eyes on Clint, "even if they do not."

Clint frowned.

"Then perhaps you already know why we are here-"

"-You seek Loki, the banished prince."

Thor soured at the title.

"We seek the way home. This dimension, this is not where we belong-"

"I know."

Thor frowned, "You do? Then why did you not speak so when I first came to you, seeking to travel to the realm of the humans-?"

"-You sought to be brought to the humans-you did not seek answers, therefore I gave none."

"We seek answers now," Stark cut in, irritated. "Where is Loki-he's the reason, right? The reason we're here in the first place-"

"Loki does not possess the power to cross dimensions, to create other worlds and to send anyone, including himself, through them-"

"The Tesseract does, though," Natasha added. Clint felt a pang of pain run through his head, and reached for it hesitantly. That word…

This action did not go unnoticed.

"Perhaps…"

"Heimdall, do not withhold information from us," Thor warned.

"-I do not have the answer for what has transpired. If Loki truly has found the power within the Tesseract to jump worlds, then he has done so and I know not how. But, if he had done so, would not he have gone through further precautions to separate the only ones to have defeated him?"

"That is strange," Banner noted. "If Loki had the Tesseract, and could jump back to any time, of course the first place he'd go is to collect the Tesseract from the humans before it could be passed down to Selvigg. He'd want to get to it before it was lost…"

"Right, we already thought that, remember? He must have gone back to the forties, somehow wrangled it from Hydra-"

"But why stop there? With that power, he could have jumped forward and conquered Asgard."

"-Unless he doesn't have the Tesseract. He never did."

Everyone turned to Heimdall, realization dawning in each one of them.

"Heimdall," Thor started, "You do not know where Loki is…perhaps, do you…Do you know where the Tesseract is?"

Heimdall didn't respond for a moment, gazing over all who were gathered, before settling his eyes finally upon Clint.

"You all are gathered here, yet one of you does not belong."

"You mean only one of us belongs," Stark frowned, shifting in impatience. "Yes, we are all human, save for Your Prince, Thor here. We shouldn't be here in Asgard, realm of the gods, spare us that speech. Now tell us, where is the Tesseract?! Is it the key to returning home?"

"I meant what I said," Heimdall snapped in his low, deep voice.

"Of those whom the Tesseract sent, one is not here. Perhaps the missing one can provide the final answer."

Again, Heimdall rested his glance on Clint, as though weighing him in his mind before turning to Thor.

"But, the bearded one speaks the truth-they are not from here, nor allowed. Their presence upsets the balance-they must return. Immediately."

Stark looked insulted.

Thor nodded, slowly as he thought on everything Heimdall had provided.

"I understand. Thank you, Heimdall."

It was a solemn good bye, and with that, Thor led the others to return within the golden room. Clint stumbled behind the others, caught between a bitterness of not getting to extend their stay and further see the marvel that was this other world, and the growing foreboding sense of what Heimdall meant.

"So where to now?" Natasha asked, just as the lightning picked up around them, crackling about the room as Heimdall directed the Bifrost.

"We find our final companion," Stark spat, bitter just as the flashing light caught the end of his words.

* * *

_Oh, will you find me_

_Hiding out, hiding out_

_Oh, will you find me_

_Hiding out, hiding out?_

* * *

Clint remembered hitting the ground, sprawled on his chest. His head burned inwardly from the impact, and he'd thought it would be much less painful to simply go to sleep.

So, he did so.

* * *

Asleep, he dreamed of those flat, golden corn fields he'd been surrounded by just a few days ago, and of the giant circus tent pitched in the center. He heard people cheer from within and though how curious it was that he wasn't inside, performing or even preparing to go on. Had his act already ended? Had he escaped clean up duty?

Behind him, he heard a hiss, trying to catch his attention, and turned to see Barney winking at him from behind a crate. But Barney was a mere child, and it dawned on him that he, too, was much younger than he'd been when he'd fallen asleep.

_"Come on, follow me!_" Barney whispered, turning on his heels to sprint off.

"W-wait!" Clint called, stumbling to keep up. "Stop, Barney! I can't keep up! I'll lose you!"

Barney scoffed, not slowing down.

_"Of course you won't! Keep your eyes on me-you won't lose me_!"

* * *

"Clint?"

Clint wakes up moment later to Natasha shaking him awake. He blinks and slowly sits himself up, with her help, before looking around him. Everyone is as jumbled and bent over backwards as he is, save for Thor who is standing amongst the sprawled out humans and baffled at how they could have ended up on the ground.

Clint then turns to their surroundings, and they're neither in Asgard nor at the airport runway.

They were amidst a field of wheat, though it was night and therefore everything was dark and blue and alive with the croaks of crickets and silence.

"Where are we?" Banner coughs.

"Nowhere good," Stark mutters, brushing himself off as he stands.

"Let's find out," Natasha answers, standing on her own and leaving Clint to collect himself to his feet. She immediately makes to leave the fields, and everyone slowly follows her.

* * *

Clint lags in the back of the group, still thinking of the dream. All the dreams he's had of late, he cannot determine whether they're memories or dreams, and he has to think hard to recall if he remembers ever chasing after Barney on a lazy summer day as he dreamed.

He finally reasons that is was more than just a dream, but he finds it out of place, when lately all he's dreamed of have been memories of his adulthood which conflicted with the past he knows, he was once sure of. This childhood memory he can't quite place if it's from this time or the other.

"Clint?"

Natasha has made her way to the back, Stark taking over in leading their rag tag bunch through the stalks, and he pushes his thoughts aside to acknowledge her.

"Natasha," he greets, but it's awkward and forced. She smiles at him, but that, too, seems out of place.

"How are you?"

Clint sighs.

"I…I-" he laughs between his thoughts, "I don't know what to think. I'm questioning everything and I don't have any answers-Everything is just fuzzy and I don't know if I'm going crazy or you all are just rubbing off on me-"

Thor's words echo in Natasha's head, and she wonders if Clint is forgetting, rather than remembering.

"T-tell me what you remember," she tries to coax him. Clint frowned, in concentration, before beginning-

"I remembered…back then, before we'd met-at the theatre," he adds, and this whole time line fiasco is more confusing by the minute-"I…I told you I thought I heard your voice before. We were…somewhere. I was looking up at the sky, and I told you we should go inside-but I don't remember being by a house or anything. I just remember telling you it'd get hard to breathe soon."

Natasha smirks.

"Sounds like we were on the Helicarrier."

"The what?"

Natasha shook her head.

"You'd have to see it to believe it."

"Right…" Clint sighed. "Then…then I remember…I think we were fighting? This memory always hurts, though," he admits, tapping his forehead. "And I think it has something to do with the Tesseract…"

Natasha nods, grimacing as she does so.

"Yes, Loki, he…he once used the Tesseract to…control you. We fought, you and I, while you were under its influence. I won-I freed you from its-his, control."

Clint nodded like he understood but he didn't remember much of that and if anything he was more confused. This Tesseract controlled him and sent them all here?

"And...and then I dream about Barney. About our childhood-being in the fields and running around during circus shows. Because we knew the show inside and out, and so we'd sneak off sometimes to run through the fields-"

Natasha didn't know this memory, and her face showed as much, but Clint continued.

"I was slower than Barney-I was always afraid he'd leave me, because he was faster. That I'd get lost, but…"

Clint smirked, "But, he always told me I'd never get lost, I'd never lose him, as long as I watched him. So long as I could see him, as long as I could follow him, I wouldn't get lost."

Clint chuckled.

"Cheeky bastard-I got faster, thanks to him, from trying to keep up with him and never lose sight of him. I'm faster than him now, even, too! I guess he was just trying to help me the whole time…"

"You really love Barney, don't you?" Natasha finally spoke, to which Clint didn't even acknowledge. Of course he did. Hell, he was tagging along to Paris and the realm of Gods all for Barney's sake, wasn't he?

"You light up when you talk about him. You did the same thing, back in Paris."

Clint scoffed. He must sound like he was talking about a lover, the way he praised Barney!

"He's an idiot, don't get me wrong," Clint laughs. "But…he's the reason I'm even here today. He saved my ass, back then and even now, too. Before all this, he even mentioned leaving the circus. I bet he'd be loving this, right now; adventure and travel. He just wants what's best for us, best for me…"

Clint trailed off, slumping slowly. Natasha smiled, staring up at the stars. She opened her mouth to speak, but stops when she noticed how Clint isn't walking forward anymore.

"Clint-?"

She catches him just as he sways to hit the ground, and in an instant she's yelling for Banner because Clint has fainted.

* * *

_"Tell me a happy memory…"_

Clint sighs, thinks a moment, then smiles.

"How about the first time you smiled?"

_"Hm? When was that?_"

"The day we recruited you for Shield. And you stepped on the Helicarrier for the first time-"

_"I remember. And you told me we better head inside. It'd get hard to breath._"

"And when I looked back at you, you were smiling-"

_"-I don't remember,_" she says quickly, to cut him off; to stop him. He doesn't mention how he plays out her smile in his mind constantly, but in that instant, he can't remember it. Her smile-what she looked like.

He can't see her now though; it's all darkness. And somewhere in the background, he hears Barney, as a small child, whistling a tune Clint can't quite name.

Then there's the pain in his forehead again and Clint hears a foreign hiss call for the 'Tesseract', but now he knows the name. He recognizes the word, because Natasha has said it before.

Except now the pain has spread and no longer does he feel it just in his forehead, but his chest as well. He feels a swelling of pain and it's hard to breath, and he tries to cough but all that comes out is her laughter and Barney's whistling.

* * *

"Clint? Clint-!"

Clint shivers awake, and instantly he notes the dim light of a motel room. He's on some stiff mattress, under a quilted comforter, and Natasha is sitting beside him. His eyes dart around, and in the corner sits Banner and he sees Thor's shadow on the wall but not Thor himself. He can't hear Stark, but he's sure he's somewhere nearby.

"Clint, are you alright?"

Clint nods, but he doesn't actually know what for. He feels terrible, he feels on fire. He can't hear half of what Natasha says, and he's comprehending even less of it. Finally, he gains an understanding that she's asking if he wants water and he accepts it eagerly.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

No, no he's not. In the last forty-eight hours, he's gone from a happy, if not meek, living with his brother sleeping on hay under tents and open sky to jet-setting across the globe, twice, in monkey suits with complete strangers who are preaching their crazy and dragging him to other worlds of gold and sunsets and now his head hurts and every time he closes his eyes, he's engulfed by the same memories and the same pain-

"Where's Stark?" He mutters, taking a head count of the room for the fiftieth time it seems.

"Working out the bill. We're in a motel." He'd figured as much, Clint thinks but doesn't say.

"Stark is having Jarvis trace where we'll find Rogers. In the morning, if you're feeling better, we'll head out. Stark's rented a car and everything-"

"I'm feeling better now-"

"We could all use a night's rest, I think," Natasha cut in, a gentle hand firmly keeping Barton from rising.

Clint looks about the room. There's a cot, no doubt wheeled in from storage, and two beds. He does a quick head count and his eyes seem to ask for him, because Natasha responds, "You and I get this bed-" He almost questions if that's alright with her, but then recalls she's probably more comfortable with the idea than him. They had been partners, at least she recalls them being.

He wonders how close their relationship had ever been, and if they'd ever been romantically involved. How much did she mean to him? And in his dreams?

"Stark agreed to take the cot-" He can tell, with the strain laced in her voice, that that must have been an agreeable argument, and he was almost surprised by Stark's compromise. No doubt he threw a fit about sharing a bed-perhaps an even greater one on staying in this dingy motel in the first place.

"Banner and Thor will take the other bed."

Clint nodded, but found he didn't care anymore where everyone slept. He closed his eyes and settled back into sleep before Natasha could say anymore. He just felt so tired…

* * *

Natasha sighed, settling under the comforters beside Clint, wary to give him as much space as she could but for her own selfishness, reaching a hand just out of reach of his arm. She turned to face him, watching his still figure sleep, his chest hardly rising and falling. He looked pale-paler than when she'd first met him, in this world at least. Memories flooded to her by the minute. Memories of Clint and her, of the Avengers and Shield and everything from her life, her real life. She'd almost forgotten that they weren't in their original time line, and that in this world Clint and her had really only met a day ago.

Banner was snoring on the mattress beside her. Thor, too, had fallen asleep, but not after exploring the several channels offered on the television, none of which were good connection or programming. Stark, too, had finally returned, having vented his dissatisfaction of their predicament, and settled to sleep, curled up on his cot.

Natasha prayed that they'd find the Captain tomorrow. That somehow Clint would remember everything, would remember her, and they'd find the Tesseract and make it back home. She couldn't remember how they'd gotten here, but she knew in her gut that Loki was behind it. And she swore she'd get her revenge, in some way or other, for tearing her and Clint apart. For doing the worst thing possible-making him forget her.

Making him replace her. With Barney.

Clint never spoke much of Barney. But where she came from, where they all did, Barney had long ago broken the brotherly bonds that held their allegiance together. Barney had betrayed Clint and left him to die. Clint didn't like to mention Barney. Yet here, in this world, it was the only thing that he held onto. The love for his brother was all that held him back, held him from believing the truth that he belonged with her-them. That he belonged with them.

Flustered, but with no reason to feel so, Natasha turned onto her other side and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, she willed, they'd find the Tesseract and Rogers and Clint's memories and they'd go home.

* * *

_Oh, so many times_

_We had the chance_

_For change and rebirth_

* * *

Natasha woke slowly, until it dawned on her where she was. She was not in some glorious, five star hotel, on a floor bought out by her dance company. She was not in her quarters back at Shield, or in her personal room at Stark's tower.

She was in a motel, and she was alone on a rather uncomfortable bed.

Natasha was on her feet at 'alone' and had whipped around only to find her attention drawn to the window, upon which sat what, or rather whom, she was looking for.

Barton sat, looking worse for wear, with his knees drawn to his chest and his tired eyes looking beyond the pool and parking lot. Below him, Stark still slept, sprawled out amongst his cot.

Natasha nodded in Clint's direction, hoping he'd have seen her silent inquiry of his well-being.

He responded as much.

"Couldn't sleep," he muttered, though Natasha didn't know what to make of it. It seemed she couldn't keep him awake, with how many times he'd passed out or how many hours he'd slept through.

He didn't admit that the dreams had become more real, more painful. The pain in his chest had spread, and her words were louder, clearer, but still he couldn't imagine her smile, the one he told himself he knew so well. He couldn't see it.

Stark gasped awake, clutching at his chest, feeling for something that wasn't there. Grumbling, he stumbled from the cot, looking as disgruntled as Clint felt.

"Right, let's see how continental this breakfast is."

* * *

By Stark's urgings, they were out of the motel in less than two hours. The rental car was crammed, and Stark insisted on driving-he claimed it'd calm his nerves. Natasha amused herself, imaging him to be the father of a remarkable family, leading them on the platonic family road trip yet irritated without his frequent smoke breaks. Banner sat in the passenger seat, dozing off to the faint tunes of the radio and warm sun that shone through the window.

Thor and Barton took the window seats, with Natasha herself between them. While Thor slurped at some drink or other, frequently trying to lighten the mood with some memory or speech or other, Clint rested his head against the window and seemed to sleep further, which Natasha monitored. Occasionally he'd jolt back into awareness, clutching his chest but saying nothing, and only Natasha saw as much. She said nothing, but made note to ask him later.

It became painfully obvious that this whole ordeal was taking its toll when Stark made mention of a bathroom and snack break at the gas station approaching. Thor, brightening at the thought of food, inquired if perhaps there were the glorious foods known as pop tarts present. The word seemed to call up some memory, no doubt of Jane, and rather quickly the mood of the car darkened.

Tony gripped at his collar bone, and Natasha realized just then how vulnerable Stark must feel. In this world, Stark wasn't Iron Man. Iron Man hadn't even been invented yet. Stark's heart was fine, safe, and functional. There was no Arc reactor pumping and keeping him alive.

Banner could relax because there was no hulk. He was just a regular scientist with some amazing friends. Natasha wondered if Banner even wanted to return-to go back to a life where he was constantly on the run. Where he couldn't get close to anyone he wanted to-or anyone, rather.

Thor had never met Jane; he'd never been banished. But, he'd still lost his brother. It was all the pain of before but without the love he'd found on Earth. He was alone on Earth, save for them.

And she? What really was waiting for her, back in the other world? She was a tool, used by a spy agency. Her past was nothing but blood and fires. She had parents here, in this world. A normal life, and friends amongst her dance company. She had everything she could ever have wanted in her past life.

Except for Barton.

And Clint? He had everything he'd ever wanted in this life. He had his brother back. He was happy and oblivious, and he didn't kill for a living.

"Stark, where are we going..?" Banner finally asked.

"To find Rogers."

"You know where he is?" Natasha asked, leaning forward.

There was some hesitation, then finally, "..yes."

"And..?"

"And we'll find him at the capital."

"Washington?"

"The one and only. So buckle down and lean back-it's still a few hours away."

Clint didn't need to be told twice-he was asleep in under a minute.

* * *

_"Tell me a happy memory."_

"The first time you smiled."

But I can't remember it, he thought. Barney was whistling in the background. Everything was so dark, but Clint knew Natasha was beside him.

_"Tell me a happy memory."_

Barney stops whistling and he hears someone scream. It sounds like Natasha but he still can't see her.

"_Keep your eyes on me,_" Barney calls after him, and Clint tries to look forward, tries to find Barney. He can't follow him if he can't see him.

"_Keep your eyes on m_e," Natasha whispers, in the same pleasant and soft voice that asks him to tell her of a happy memory. He nods slowly, but his head is nodding off because it's heavy, not because he agrees. He feels his body slump forward and the pain in his chest is overwhelming.

"_-Clint_!"

* * *

Clint sits up, jolting awake as Natasha nudges for him to exit the car. They've come to a stop, but he doesn't know where. Clint struggles to open the door and stumbles into the gravel parking lot.

They're at a grave yard.

"Oh, no-"

Natasha grips her hands to her mouth, and Banner is rubbing his own through his hair. Thor looks like he's about to perform a vigil, yet Stark stands staring forward.

"Banner wasn't the first I approached, when my memories returned…I…I sought after the Cap first, but…"

"It'd been seventy years," Banner mumbles, because this is no one's fault. It's what he's silently telling them. Stark glances between Banner and Thor, as if to say it is someone's fault, and he knows exactly whose fault it is, but out of respect of his brother he won't call him out openly for it.

Stark steps forward, leading them on. Clint steps after him next, because he's the most collected and because he doesn't want to see the other's tears or the pity on their faces. He watches the back of Stark's head and follows him through the lines of graves.

Their footsteps echo amongst the rocks and Barton kicks with his feet. The last cemetery he remembers visiting was that of his parents, and he swore never to return. He wonders how many funerals he'd been to in the other world, if he believed in it, or how many friends he's had to bury.

Then he wonders how many people he's put in early graves themselves. How many deserved it.

How many didn't.

* * *

"We're here," Stark finally mutters as they stand before a mausoleum.

To Clint, it's a large concrete block, gated and with steps and columns like a tiny house, but he can't imagine anyone living in it-the irony doesn't go unnoticed to him.

The door is bolted closed and atop the pillars reads some inscription, some quote or other that exemplifies the war or the courage of a single soldier and it's all very beautiful and poetic and patriotic but Clint can't help but thinking it's not very humble. Perhaps the state at the time thought it was the burial site fit for a hero, but something in the back of Clint's mind argues he wouldn't have wanted this.

Hell, maybe Captain America would just want to be buried in a box with a flag over his coffin and leave it at that.

Something about this whole scene seemed unnatural-unnecessary.

"So this is it?" Natasha finally mutters, and she sounds bitter. She sounds upset, and Clint feels as in pain as she sounds. But his pain swells from his chest and he grips at it.

"We came all this way for his grave? This can't be it, he can't be-"

"World War II, Natasha. Remember, Loki jumped back to when the Tesseract surfaced, maybe even before then. Without the Tesseract, Cap never-"

Slept for seventy years, Clint finishes. The Cap…

He grips tighter at his chest, because the pain is spreading and he swallows down a cough.

"Did he remember?" Banner finally asks. No one notices Clint, whose turned away from them. "Do you think…he remembered, like we do?" Like all of us but Clint.

"But none of us were alive at that time. He…He would have lived out, remembering people who didn't even exist-"

"-forget people, he saw the future. He saw what and how everything became. It would have driven him mad…"

Thor sighed, before humming out a low tune, some hymn for a fallen warrior. Banner rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses. Natasha shook her head, not accepting any of this, before storming off. Stark stared at the grave, his eyes fixated on the reliefs above the bolted door.

"Hang on-"

Clint felt his knees wobbling. The pain was unbearable.

"Hey, hey look now-" Stark pointed to the relief. "Who does that remind you of?"

Natasha was by his side, still fuming but directing her attention to the grave. She squinted, then smirked.

"Doctor, Thor, Clint-you all may want to see this."

Thor halted his musings and ponder the images, Banner stepping beside her as well.

"I'll be…That looks like Mr. Thunder himself!"

Thor smiled despite himself. "The likeness is reasonable!"

"-And that's Stark! See? It's Iron Man!"

"And that gargoyle-It's the Hu-Other Guy!"

"And there's us! Clint, look, it's us! It's your bow and everything-" Natasha whipped around, just as Clint fell to his knees. "Clint?!"

"Look! The Sonabitch!" Stark chuckled, shaking his head. "I came here and didn't notice it before- he designed this his damn self. Look, that's him! And-" Stark reached forward, passing the rusting gate and approaching the column image where a stone carving resided; a patriotic Captain dressed with a star on his chest, and looking in the same direction that they all did.

"The stone's loose here!" Stark prodded, pulling at the white brick. Suddenly, a glow lit from behind him. Banner straightened and Thor gasped. Natasha, however, had directed her attention to Clint, instantly by his side.

"It's here! It's the Tesseract! The Bastard buried it with him, he knew we'd come looking for it-"

"Clint-?! Clint!"

"Saved me the trouble of searching, you mortals did."

Everyone, save for Natasha and Clint, whipped their heads to face the new comer, Thor's heart sinking as he recognized his brother.

"Loki…"

* * *

_Oh, so many times_

_We had the chance_

_To pause and reverse_

* * *

"Hello, Brother."

"So, it was you," Stark quipped, the Tesseract still gripped in his hand. "You did send us back in time, or rather yourself. What happened? You lost the Tesseract- the Cap here wrestled it from you?"

Loki looked less pleased as Stark spoke, but instead turned his attention to Barton.

"Oh? Why is he here?"

Natasha gripped Barton's shoulders protectively, snarling at Loki.

"Send us back-"

"I am by no means in any position to take orders from you. Any of you," Loki snapped back. "Rather, it appears the opposite." He held out a hand, the other gripping his scepter.

"Give me the Tesseract."

"Over all our Mausoleums," Stark mocked without a moment's hesitation.

"Two of you are already there-what's four more?"

Stark barely ducked as a blue light shot towards him. Thor instantly jumped after his brother, who proceeded to dodge.

"Banner, Tony, stand back! Under the circumstances, I do not believe you are capable to fight!"

"He has a point, Stark-" Banner yelled as Stark sprinted beside the doctor.

"Well, we'll leave this between two brothers then. Romanov, pack up the bird boy and let's go-we need to get out of here!"

"Clint, Clint please! Come on, Clint-we need to go!"

Clint didn't hear Natasha, his vision of her looming frantically over her blurring into a soft image of her smiling down at him, with a yellow light brightly illuminating from behind her.

"Clint, we need to go!"

"_Clint, tell me a happy memory_."

"Natasha, get him on his feet!"

Clint felt two hands grip his arms and yank him forward. He couldn't feel his feet moving but he supposes they had to be. All his felt was the beating of his heart, throbbing in his ears, and the pain spreading in his chest, which was becoming unbearable. How they made it to the car, Clint doesn't even remember. He recalls being slipped into the back seat, with Natasha shaking him, and then slipping into unconscious.

"Clint-!"

* * *

_"CLINT-!"_

He doesn't hear her, through the sound of his own gurgling as blood boils through his throat. His mouth gawks open and a pool spurts from within him, his lungs collapsing and contracting, trying to force the blood from them to breathe again.

He looks beyond himself and sees Loki, caught between maliciously pleased with his final accomplishment and the sting of pain at having lost the Tesseract. All around him, wind is ripping at the scene and at everything. It's howling around him and the sound of walls crumbling and tearing is deafening.

The Cap looks horrified, standing somewhere between Loki and Clint, and his eyes are trained on Clint's chest, the wound gaping from it fresh and flowing.

Natasha is just beyond Loki, screaming his name that he can't hear. And she's desperate to reach him but she can't reach for him. Because both her hands grip at the metal beam, keeping her from falling back into the portal, suspended briefly. He needs to close the portal, he thinks.

He's just out of reach of it-he can see everything being drawn to it and he knows someone has to close it. So why not him?

He stumbles to stand, and with the sway of his body another gulp of blood lops from inside his mouth, gathered to be a handful of crimson, and unceremoniously splats at his feet, some spilling over his boots and pants.

Natasha is crying, and it's the worse sight to behold, he thinks. It's as painful as watching Barney turn his back on him, over and over. It's his worst nightmare-seeing Natasha, helpless, and being unable to help her. He feels sentimental and wishes she didn't have to had lived like this. Being used and broken and tortured and torturing. He wonders why her only solace was him-the only thing that kept her human was another broken, soulless man. And he hates that her only comfort, her vulnerability, is now being used against her, dying and crumbling away; drowning in his own pool of blood yet still soldering on.

Loki hisses but that threat is as unheard as Natasha's wails. Clint stumbles to the Tesseract, gripping with blood stained fingers at its hold. He tries to muster strength in his numbing fingers to pry the object loose, free.

Loki is on his feet again and making a go at Clint. But Steve catches sight of this and makes a dash to intercept.

Tears clear the dirt and grime and blood from Clint's cheeks as he envisions his fingers fiddling with Natasha's hair. That might explain the red.

_"Tell me something happy," _Her face says, and she's smiling. He smiles back, and how silly he must look, dying and holding the Tesseract but smiling at it like he's looking into the eyes of a lover on a summer afternoon.

Because to him, that's exactly what he's doing.

_"Tell me about your brother. The good memories with him."_

"About cornfields…" He mumbles in reply, because he still holds on to the memories of two small boys running around a circus tent in the middle of a golden no-where while crowds roared with cheer behind red and white tent curtains, and the sound of his brother egging him on keeps him running.

_"What did he say to you, Clint?"_

Clint smiles, just as his eyes close and he feels his body go limp and dark. The Tesseract slips from his hand and tumbles away, just as Rogers picks it up. Loki reaches Rogers, making a final grasp for the object, but Rogers fights him off, and with a well-landed punch, they both trip and suddenly the portal, fast closing, picks them both and in a flash they're gone.

Natasha's grip is all but gone and in horror she watches Clint, laying on his side, open his eyes one last time. And the fading image of her being pulled into the portal is the last thing he sees, while his mind (Still lost in the day dream of a smiling Natasha asking him for a happy memory, and the happy memory of his brother prodding him ever on behind him) wills his final words to be,

"Keep your eyes on me…Follow me."

* * *

_Nobody wants anything_

_Unless you give it to them_

_Like it's worth something_

* * *

When Clint comes to, his head is in Natasha's lap and she's crying. He sits up, despite the pain in his head and chest, and he looks about him. The car is flipped-they're outside on the ground, the pavement, and there are small fires all around him. Thor stands before him, like a shield, and just behind him sits Banner, who hovers over Stark whom is sporting a large gash on the side of his head.

"Hand me the Tesseract," Loki snarls, several feet ahead and facing Thor. Clint looks around and notices Banner now grips and cube, though his hands tremble and he's considering handing it to Loki, if nothing but to ensure their survival. But he knows better than to trust Loki.

Clint ignores all of this and turns to face Natasha, gripping her tear-stricken face with his hands.

"I remember."

Her breath hitches and she tries to smile. She smiles like she did in his memory.

"I remember why we're here. How we got here. I remember the moment…"

Loki laughs.

"What do you all see? A past you cannot forget. Yet, you…You, Clint Barton, are suspended in a moment; the present. Why you do not remember, save the moment of the present? It is because you are suspended there; you are dead. Complete this task, remember, and you will die. You can live here, with your brother, or die there."

Natasha shakes her head, "What does he mean, Clint. What is he talking about?"

"Tell her, Clint. Ease her suffering."

Clint ignores Loki, gripping Natasha's hands in his own.

"Loki, he…he escaped, with the Tesseract, from Thor's world. But, that wasn't enough. The defeat, the humiliation, from before…it wasn't enough to have it now. He was greedy. He…he went back, for us. He ambushed us, tricked us into a trap. And he…he unleashed the Tesseract, he created a portal. A portal to another universe, another time line. And he sent us here. Thor first, then Stark and Banner-"

"Clint, I don't understand-"

Clint laughed at the irony. Here, finally, he was trying to convince her of a memory she didn't recall.

"The portal he opened, I knew someone had to close it. So, I did-I separated the Tesseract from his scepter, and that ended it. The Cap, he…He got to the Tesseract first-"

And he kept it. That explained it. He lived the life he was meant to live, in the forties, through the fifties and he kept the Tesseract. And when he died, he had it buried with him, hidden until the day the rest of his team sought after it, and hidden so Loki never could find it.

"I thought you had the Tesseract?"

"I-I dropped it." How do you tell someone you died? Or were dying?

"You, the Cap…Loki too, I suppose-all went through the portal, as it was closing."

"And you?" Natasha sniffed. "You went through too, didn't you?"

That he wasn't sure of, but slowly he nodded.

"I…I think I followed-"

"-Think?!"

"-Yes. Yes, me too. We all fell through, as the portal was closing-"

"-So it's his scepter. We need his scepter, and we'll return? That's it's?"

Clint smiled, nodding, but couldn't find the words. Finally, he stuttered.

"N-no. No, that's…it's not it."

"Tell her," Loki jeered, snarling like it was his victory. "Why is it, what did Heimdall say? That you are forgetting, rather than remembering? Because the memories you have, you all have, you are pulling from your lives in the other realm.

"So? Clint, what does he mean?"

"I mean what I say, wench. Your memories come from your lives-"

"I'm dying, Natasha."

Natasha shook her head, like she didn't understand. He looked fine-he was breathing before her.

"In fact, I may…I may already be dead-"

"No, no, you're fine. Look at you, you're-"

"Loki, he…he got me. Before I got to close the portal, he got to me. Before we even all got pulled in, I…" He tapped at his chest, at the center of the pain and if Natasha remembered anything, she refused to acknowledge it. She refused to believe.

"Do you remember what Heimdall said? That one of didn't belong…he meant me, Nat. Because I'm-"

"No," she commanded. She wouldn't hear of it. But she knew. He saw it now, in her eyes. Perhaps she was finally remembering.

"These dreams, my memories; why they're all the same-it's my final memories. It's the last thing I remember, before…" dying, he finishes in his mind.

The image of Natasha screaming as she clung desperately so as not to fall through the portal, screaming as she watched Clint break the link between the Scepter and the Tesseract and as he fell.

The image he'd conjured of that sunny summer afternoon where Natasha had felt truly happy, when it'd just been the two of them. And she'd asked him to share his happiest memory. At that time, he'd thought of the first time she'd smiled at him. Of that day aboard the Helicarrier with her. He hadn't said that. He didn't even tell her that that moment, sitting there with her smiling down at him in that light, was his happiest moment. She asked again, and he'd told her his third happiest moment-a moment in time with Barney, before his brother had left him without looking back as he lay dying. A moment where Barney had told Clint to keep going, as long as he saw him.

And Clint kept going, so long as he saw her.

* * *

Loki was so absorbed with the scene before him, of Natasha suffering and Clint dying on the inside, he didn't notice Stark having snuck around. Stark used the loosened brick from Steve's grave, slamming it against Loki's wrist. The scepter flew forward, landing at Thor's feet.

In an instant, Loki had shifted his attention, turning his wrath to Stark and gripping at his throat, throwing him carelessly backwards. In an instant, Thor was on him, their brotherly brawl beginning again and Banner scrambled for the scepter.

"I don't-I can't work it! Barton, can you? Barton!"

Clint looked pleadingly at Natasha before turning to Banner.

"I think I can-"

"-Wait!" Natasha cut in. "Wait, just…let's talk this through-"

"What's there to talk about?" Barton snapped. Women! Always wanting to talk things through!

"Clint, if…if we go back now, back to how things were left-"

"Natasha, I can do this. I was under the Tesseract's control-I think that gives me some kind of connection, I can use that to maybe create the portal, open it so we can go home-"

"So you can die?"

Clint shook his head.

"You don't belong here-we don't, remember? That's what this whole quest was about-"

"If we go back now, then you'll have your wounds again and you'll die, if you're not already dead."

"Then I'll stay," Clint offered, and Natasha choked on her breath. "I'll stay here, and I'll live-"

Natasha shook her head, cutting him off. "No, no, those aren't our only options-"

"We don't have time for others."

Clint made a move to go, to reach Banner and the scepter, but Natasha held him back.

"Nat-"

"Don't. W-we can stay, all of us! We can live-"

"We don't belong here! Natasha, you told me yourself-"

"That was before I knew you had died!"

"And here the Captain's dead!"

Natasha bit her lip, tears freely streaming from her eyes. Damn, he hated to see her cry. And she rarely ever did. Except for him.

"Tasha," he muttered, gripping her chin. "This is a mission. Let's finish it-"

"No," he argued, weakly. "No, we go through that portal, and there is no return. You die over there, Clint."

"I know."

"I don't want to lose you! Not again!"

His options already were shot to hell. If he stayed, then she left him-they all did. He'd return to the circus, to a life that wasn't his, to Barney.

Barney…

If he left now, he'd never see Barney again. He'd never bring back that souvenir, like he promised.

Scratch that, if he left with them he'd die.

But this wasn't about him.

A thunderous crack was a distraction enough for Clint. The battle between Thor and Loki wasn't going so well, and Clint used the moment that Natasha's attention had been pulled from him to escape her grip. In a second he had pushed off from her, sprinting to Banner as she scrambled to catch up to him.

The moment the scepter was in Barton's hands, it had come alive, glowing with his intent. Banner tossed him the Tesseract, and just as Natasha reached his shoulder, Barton collided the two.

The wind whipped around them and the space in front of Barton split, creating it's own plane as a portal broke free. Barton whipped around in the same instant, gripping Natasha's wrist.

"Keep your eyes on me-you won't lose me."

With an apologetic smile, he winked at her and shifted his weight, throwing her forward and first through the portal.

She screamed his name until she disappeared.

* * *

"Banner, go!"

Banner didn't hesitate, leaping after Natasha. Stark was sprinting after him, and moments later made the leap of faith into the vortex.

"Thor-"

"I am busy-" Thor remarked, throwing his brother off of him.

"Get un-busy!"

Thor swung his hammer, sending his brother crashing. As his brother hit the ground, Thor set his hammer atop his brother and made a dahs towards the portal.

Clint moved to break the connection between the Tesseract and scepter, eyeing the distance between himself and the portal and the dash it would take to reach it.

"If you go through, you'll die!" Loki snarled.

Barton hesitated, then smiled.

"She's waiting on the other side for me."

Barton threw the scepter aside, tucking the Tesseract like a football under his shoulder. As Thor reached the portal, he turned, calling forth his hammer which flew to him just as he passed through. The collapsing portal seemed to shift as it shrunk, and Barton aimed himself like an arrow to a moving target.

He leapt at the final opening, the sound of Loki cursing behind him.

He could here Natasha, through the portal and over Loki's scream and the wind-

_"Keep your eyes on me. Follow me!"_

* * *

_Nobody wants anything_

_Unless you give it to them_

_Like it's worth something_

* * *

**A/N: **Did I just do that?! Yep, that's the end...

In the original drafts of this story, Clint was a lot angrier through out the story, and Natasha got pretty emotional; Stark originally buys out Clint's circus to get him to accompany him and Banner. But, when I sat down to fully type the story out, Barney kind of weaved his way into having a larger part in it, so Stark just black-mailed using Barney rather than employing Clint, so to speak. And Clint's anger manifested more into the direction of constantly passing out and physically draining himself, because the wounds from the real world are catching up to him~

Yes, most of this story was probably ill-thought out. I love the concept of Alternate universes and time travel, and all the angst that comes with it, but it's very difficult, for me at least, to make it all sound correct and sensible, so there are plenty of loop-holes but oh well :p If it got confusing, know this-Steve had the Tesseract when they all went through the portal, and so he kept it and buried it with him so the others, when they were essentially birthed and caught up to the time where they'd remember the actual past, would find it and not Loki.

I also know I probably incorrectly represented Asgard (I've heard a rumor humans can't go there..? Something about the air..? Idk...in all honesty, I needed more substance in the middle of the story to drag it out~ Sorry if my portrayal of Heimdall was lacking T_T).

This whole story felt underdeveloped in many ways, and I'm sorry. The Barney-importance seemed to drop somewhere in the middle, and I wish I would've expanded more with the other characters and what this new reality is like to them. In the first draft, the story opened with Stark, who confronts Pepper who has no idea of anything he talks about, as well as their relationship. Also, it occurred to me that Stark's relationship with his father would have been severely altered in this reality, much like Clint and Barney; without his father constantly having to search or obsess over Captain America, maybe he'd have been a more attentive father-thinking now, maybe Steve lived in time to meet the child Tony? I didn't really clarify when or where Steve died; you can interpret it as to have been during the war or naturally after a long life~)

Addressing the ending-I went back and forth on how to end it. It's also left rather open ended if Clint even went through the portal the first time; he may have died in the past, and so the Clint they're dragging along is actually this new reality's Clint, without a counter part to return to in their reality~. Or, perhaps Clint hadn't completely died and did go through the portal; though whether that means he'll return to his dying self, or if he'll emerge from the portal fully healed and healthy~ I'll leave that up to you all :p

Maybe a few cynists out there will imagine the portal doesn't even take them home. *Gosh, that'd be really mean, actually!*

Maybe this story will get a better conclusion...one day...

*I promise, though it might be awhile, the next story won't include an amnesia-Clint! I won't promise it'll be any happier, but~*

Anyway! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Sorry bout mistakes or loop-holes and all that~! Thank you for reading! (Sorry, this was so long!)


	9. Persuasion

Oh my~! This chapter is alarmingly shorter than the previous ones! It's barely over a third of the last chapter's length (Granted, the last chapter was pretty damn long). I have a LOT of reserves about this chapter, so I'm nervous about posting it, but~ We'll see.

I mentioned in the last chapter this idea of a story read backwards; And~ here it is! Read through the story once, but be aware it's traveling backwards in time :I It'll be confusing, sorry, and if it's too awkward then go ahead and start from the end and read to the beginning..?! Again, I have a lot of reserves about this chapter...

Warning: The A/N at the end of this is going to be very long, if you read that...

Disclaimer: I own nothing! Song is "Persuasion" by Sucre off her album "A Minor Bird"!

* * *

_Persuasion_

* * *

_Realize I want you_

_In the strangest way,_

_I create you_

_But I couldn't dream you up_

_No, I couldn't dream you up_

* * *

"Are you going to be alright without me, Nat?"

She doesn't look at him. It doesn't matter, though, because he's not looking at her, either.

He's looking beyond, out the window, at nothing in particular, with his back to her.

She's hugging herself and watching her feet because she doesn't trust her eyes but she nods and smiles all the same, and after a long pause, she remarks with a shrug, "Without you watching my back? I'll survive."

He's already gone.

It dawns on her that he's been gone for quite some time now, when she finally does speak.

This time, though, she thinks, she'll let him go.

* * *

She doesn't even remember what the joke was, but she's still laughing ten minutes later. It's an obnoxious laugh, loud and built up from having held in her laughter for months, it seems, now, but no one is glaring at her or muttering "it wasn't that funny."

They're all happy to see her smiling.

Stark determines that the waters have been tested and found warm, and his slow build up into jokes and quips isn't slow at all; he orders everyone another round of shots and then buys the bar itself. Banner swishes a scotch and smirks, and for a moment he appears invested in the conversation. But then he puts his head down and he's asleep and no one tries to wake him because the mood is good but it's not that good.

Even Steve has lightened up and Pepper has loosened her leash on Tony, allowing him a few gabs before she shoots him a warning, "Tony."

It's odd how natural things still seem, even in Clint's absence.

* * *

"That's a pretty dress!"

Pepper notes, whenever Natasha steps out. The gathered few give Natasha a proper, admiring look.

The dress is emerald, and Natasha stops to examine the dress herself, as though she's as surprised to see herself in it as they are.

"I haven't ever seen you wear that one," Steve comments, and he's trying to be polite.

And it's true. Of all the covers and dresses she's worn within these past months, Steve has never seen Natasha in this particular dress.

Stark takes a swing of his scotch, pre-gaming before they even reach the bar.

It's the first outing they're all going to; a night out for dinner and drinks.

Natasha takes a step, showing off a small black heel with a tiny bow at the toe as she does so.

"I haven't worn it in a while, have I?"

She smirks weakly, "It's a shame. I do rather like this dress."

* * *

It's the dead of night, and she's not tired but she sits on her stomach in bed, with her eyes wide open, and all at once she's aware that Clint is in the room.

He doesn't get into the bed. He doesn't look at her. He stands, or sits, in the corner. He doesn't acknowledge her; doesn't look at her.

Natasha buries her face further in a pillow, whispering into it a question she doesn't expect him to answer.

"Where have you been?"

Because it's been days, weeks, since she remembers seeing him last. Since she last felt him near her.

And he doesn't answer.

There's a long pause before she hears him speak, and it's more to himself than to her.

"You still haven't gone on that vacation…you said you would…"

She doesn't correct him that she said _they'd_ go; together.

* * *

"Agent Hansen is in that cemetery."

He points out casually, his eyes glued to the window at every blur that passed. Natasha whips her head to stare at the gated yard, fleetingly. "In the back corner, right by a little lake."

Steve, driving, tenses when he notices Natasha stare.

She blinks as the funeral home passes and then it's gone.

"But, his grave has his real name, his birth name. James or John or something-something generic like that," Clint scoffs, more to himself than to her, and that's it. That's the most he mentions of it. It should unnerve her how casual he is about speaking of death, of a friend; how casual and how distant.

How long ago was the funeral?

* * *

"Go away." She mutters. His side of the sheets are untouched; cold. He's standing in the corner, where the dim light from the floor lamp doesn't quite reach, so he doesn't quite cast a shadow on the wall.

He glances out the window, at the pitch black sky that she hasn't bothered covering with blinds. She'll regret not doing so in the morning when the sun bursts through, but then again she's already awake and training by the time the sun does peak. So maybe it doesn't matter all the same to her.

And maybe she likes having a view of the city beneath her, even if a panel of two inch thick glass separates her.

"Do you mean that?" He asks, without looking at her.

"No," she admits.

* * *

She picks up missions again. Fury pretends he knows nothing. Like these past few weeks never existed. She's training again, and it's excessive and taxing on her body but it keeps her mind off things. Sometimes, Steve joins her in the gym. He'll spar with her.

Clint watches.

She's eating again, too. Balanced, full meals. The portions are small, but the nutrients are there and no one is telling her to eat anymore so it's a good sign.

She spends less time in her room. She goes outside, to jog; in the air, in the daylight.

Her smiles are weak and forced, but they're there, from time to time. She talks more, to the others.

She even goes out with them, occasionally.

Sometimes, though, when she returns to her room, Clint is waiting.

Sitting at the window, watching everything beneath him; like he's been there ever since she left.

* * *

They keep her. Each night, just as she tries to escape-no doubt Jarvis is tracking her every move-one of them appears and needs her assistance in some way. They distract her; they confine her. First it's Stark; he needs a model, someone close to Pepper's size, for a new mold. And his chatter tip toes around anything important but it's still enough to suspend her at the tower.

Bruce needs her language skills to translate a paper, an essay, of a fellow physicist.

Steve needs help with the modern world.

Girl's night out with Pepper, because it's been too long.

Stark needs to adjust the frame again. You're not doing anything tonight, are you?

No, I can help.

Nights pass, and pretty soon she finds herself staying at the tower, regardless of whether someone asked her to or not. Barton still won't look at her, but she swears she almost catches him smiling. That, or it's a figment of her imagination.

* * *

"Natasha?" She hears Steve's voice bleed through the door, followed by a light knock. She hesitates for a moment, but by the time she's resolved to answer him, he's already opening the door and peering inside.

Barton throws him a quick look, at least in his direction.

"Are you alright?" He asks softly, like he's disturbing something important.

"I'm fine," she lies, and they both know it but he really doesn't want to argue with her again.

"We're all waiting for you..." he trails off, nervously glancing a bit as he does so.

"We'll join you in a moment," She supplies. Steve throws a quick glance towards the window, the corner, before silently agreeing to her conditions. He doesn't nod, but he doesn't argue either.

The door clicks shut, and the moment it does, Barton runs a hand through his hair.

"You didn't have to-"

"Let's not argue. Again." She adds, and she really is tired of arguing. Her throat is sore and she feels drained from yelling for hours.

Clint slowly nods.

"Alright then, no more yelling," he promises, passing by her as he makes his way towards the door.

"You promise?"

She looks up from her lap, but he's already gone.

* * *

_They say I don't deserve you_

_When it's true that I would prefer you_

_Over anyone's persuasion_

_Over anyone's persuasion_

* * *

"You went out again tonight?"

He's managed to sneak up on her and she honest to God jumps. He's been doing that a lot lately. Or maybe she's just been more jumpy as of late. She pushes that thought trail away. She won't go down it, not tonight.

"So what?" She counters. She doesn't want to have this conversation again.

"Do you feel better from it?"

"Does that matter?"

"Natasha." His voice hasn't risen, and it drives her crazy how he can convey so much disappointment, so much anger towards her reckless behavior, yet not fluctuate his tone at all. She does enough of that for the both of them, she thinks.

"What? What the hell is wrong now?"

She knows she's irrational and unreasonable and that she's taking out all her anger and frustration and everything on him. And he stands there, behind the counter, dressed in his uniform still, like he's been waiting there all afternoon for her.

And his face never betrays how hurt or frightened (for her mostly) he must be feeling. Even without looking at her.

"Shield-"

"-can go to hell."

"Director Fury is going to find out-"

"-I'm doing him a favor. I'm doing all of them a favor."

"It's not doing them a favor if you get yourself killed."

She almost snaps back some retort, but stops herself just as Bruce walks in. He cautiously eyes the whole perimeter, the room, then settles his eyes on the gun still in Natasha's hands.

"Where'd you go?" He asks casually, directing his question to Natasha. She narrows her eyes but levels her voice and replies, "out."

Like an angsty teenager. Clint scoffs and Natasha throws a glare in his direction.

Bruce ignores it.

"Why the..." He motions at the gun. He's not afraid of it for himself. He knows the other guy would have her half across the room if she tried anything on him. He's more worried for her safety.

Barton scratches his nose.

"Nat...Can you please just tell us where you went..?"

"Shut up!" She suddenly yells, though neither Bruce nor Clint flinch.

"...You killed again, didn't you?"

"It is my profession," she quips. Barton slowly shakes his head.

"We've killed before. We've never outright murdered or massacred."

"Speak for yourself," she hisses, but she knows neither of them had an easy time before Shield.

"Natasha...what you're doing-"

"I know exactly what I'm doing-"

"-it's going to have repercussions. This...this isn't how you should be handling-"

"Banner, if you're honestly going to lecture me on morals-"

"-Natasha, just listen to him..."

"This isn't going to fix anything, Natasha. You're just retaliating and it's a spiral into a dark place, believe me-"

"They had it coming," she finally counters, and again she's uncharacteristically being unreasonable and narrow minded and just all-together stupid about the decisions she's making.

And she knows it.

"Natasha..." Bruce murmurs.

"You really think this will fix everything? You really want this? All this bloodshed and murder and slinking around at night? Lying to your friends and going behind the backs of people you trust? All this because you feel the need to fulfill some selfish, flimsy little fantasy of yours where everything is righted once you perform enough wrongs?"

"Shut up!" She yells, twisting to face Barton. The gun is locked and she's pointing at him. Bruce tenses and she doesn't even notice him anymore because Clint is making her that angry.

"You really would shoot me?" Barton mocks.

Something is weighing at the edge of her eyes, like lead, and the moment a tear falls she snaps and pulls the trigger.

She misses him by a long shot and strikes three bullets in the counter.

It's a wonder Banner's nerves don't snap then and there, but he's had practice and he's patient. Instead, he yells out for Steve or Tony (Steve being the first to respond, having been just one room over at the moment) and stepping aside as Steve easily disarms Natasha. She doesn't fight him as he hits the gun from her hand, and she doesn't bother struggling when he pins her, locking her arms behind her.

Natasha is crying and Steve and Banner try to calm her, but it's not working.

Barton stares, not having even blinked. He's not looking directly at her. He's looking to the side, out the window.

* * *

Some nights, she sneaks back into base. Because Shield hasn't stripped her of her clearance quite yet, and she finds the holding room, with files of reports, and local listings of possible threats. She takes it upon herself to look into some of these risks, some of the 'to watch' list.

Because Shield has their hands full and because she has some free time.

It's more of a distraction, it's more fulfilling, when she determines for herself that these targets are truly that; targets. Pulling a trigger, whether at the wall or a person, is the same motion. But, the satisfaction of executing some murderer over the execution of a wall painting is leagues apart.

Her conscience warns her. This isn't the behavior, the procedure, of a Shield agent. This is the actions of the Black Widow. Of a freelance assassin who is refusing authority.

She knows the second Shield gets wind of her pursuits, it's over. She'll find her file in the local reports soon enough. She'll become the target.

Shield must be going out of their way to ignore her. If they haven't caught on that she's behind the recent murders, they have to be becoming aware that their list of potential (and as far as she's concerned, _confirmed_) threats are all suddenly dropping like flies as do their files to begin with seem to be disappearing.

She imagines Fury is pulling every string and contact he knows to save her ass. Maybe he secretly agrees with what she's doing (She's getting things done; Shield has been just too slow for her).

Maybe he knows she's too valuable to Shield, or knows that as long as she's on their side, no use loosing agents in trying to take her down (because in no scenario does she go down without a fight and without taking _several _agents with her, should it ever come to that).

Maybe Fury owes it not to her, but to Clint, and that's why he pretends to have a blind eye to her new-found hobby.

She can't keep these outings a secret for long. Not from Shield, not from the 'Avengers'.

And not from Clint.

She wonders, walking away from her latest victim, how the others must feel; living with a murderer. But, then again, she's always been one.

She wonders instead what it must feel like, living with the dead.

* * *

She plays with a lighter. It's fleeting and harmless but Stark watches her because he knows what the start of an addiction looks like and this one has the potential to burn down his tower.

Stark could just ask her to put it away. It's late, they're the only two up. If he was sensitive and polite, he'd simply ask, in a calm voice, for her to put the lighter up.

But he's Stark, not Rogers, and so instead, he brashly blurts out, "Natasha, I think we need to talk about-"

The lighter clicks shut but Natasha's eyes burn with enough annoyance and hatred that there's no difference. And they flicker with as much stability as a flame, too.

"Stark." She warns.

He doesn't heed it.

"We all hear you. The yelling, the fights-"

"Stark!"

"Nat? What's wrong?" Clint enters the room (Of course he does; his timing is perfect), and his voice is laced with the frailest degree of concern, but he's already looking beyond Stark and Tasha, out the window.

Natasha wants to ask when he got here, but she doesn't acknowledge him. Neither does Tony.

"You don't think you're any bit out of control? Volatile? You're a hazard to yourself-"

She throws the lighter, but not at Stark.

If anywhere, she throws it at Clint but misses him. She stands up and storms off.

Clint follows her.

Stark hides the lighter, pours himself a scotch, and stays up all night, contemplating on Natasha. Just Natasha.

* * *

_So I try to ignore you_

_It was hard_

_And I just adored you_

_And I couldn't make you leave_

_No, I couldn't make you leave_

* * *

"I don't need you! Back off-!"

He's not listening to her. He's staring out the window; maybe watching for someone to enter the tower. Maybe Stark or Rogers.

"Listen to me!" She screams, and in an instant she's at his side clutching the arms of the chair. Still he doesn't say anything. Maybe it's not worth it to argue with her. All he said was she needed to take better care of herself. Get some sleep; eat.

She looks like a corpse.

And she thinks the same thing. Of course she does. This all started because she passed a mirror. She saw the fade in her curls and the circles under her eyes. And so did he.

"What do you prefer, Nat? That I leave you alone, or that I acknowledge you? What do you desire more? How can I obey?"

She wants to slap him, she's so angry and upset at him. He's mocking her, but she refrains herself. She grabs whatever is closest; a set of keys, her keys, and throws them. Vaults them at the wall. She grabs a stack of letters, envelopes; the mail. They fly above her. She grabs a vase, a dish-whatever's closest. A pillow hits the painting on the wall-a cup tears it.

If Clint sees something interesting, through the window, he doesn't tell her about it. He continues to stare, allowing her to tantrum without intervening.

Stark walks in later, notices the painting, and says nothing. Natasha sits, unmoving, in the corner she's retreated to. Barton still perches in his chair, without acknowledging anyone. Stark brews two cups of tea and leaves one for Natasha before he takes his leave with the other, heading towards the lab. Barton doesn't drink tea.

She feels stretched thin. Fury has sworn her off any high risk mission. She's been attending balls and galas for the past month; keeping up an image of a socialite to appear a regular and gain favor. She's never been picky before but she's tired of these superficial conversations; of heels and pearls and flattery. It's affecting her nerves, and the others can tell.

Stark avoids her like the plague. She avoids Banner (Their temperaments do not need to collide). Pepper is understanding but rarely around. Thor is still unaccounted for. Steve confronts Natasha the most, but they're never pleasant. Something always ends up broken.

Barton is the only one Natasha will talk to level-headed.

* * *

"Wear the green one. You look nice in it." He's not even looking at the dress; any of them. They're sprawled on the floor, the bed. She's curled in a corner with her head down and he's at the opposite end of the room, looking casually to the side, out the window. He has her wardrobe memorized.

She doesn't say anything, so he tries again.

"You like the green one. You wore it that one time, remember? That Gala event in Beijing? With those heels with the black bow on them..?"

Minutes later, Steve taps on the door, muttering that the car Shield sent is here, waiting for Natasha. She steps out in a navy blue dress, with gold heels that have no bow. Clint doesn't move from the window, doesn't look at her.

* * *

Her room is eerily clean. She hasn't touched anything. The clothes she leaves stranded on the floor always seem to vanish at some point in the day. She suspects Banner secretly does her laundry. The bed is always made, because she hardly sleeps on it.

She hardly sleeps.

She has a few scattered guns, ammunition and knives-weapons-hidden throughout the room. She's polished them all at least twice, but never touches them anymore than that.

Barton's quiver and bow stand against the wall. They're untouched, because she wouldn't dare more them. She's waiting for Barton to.

She's neglected the plants, most of which were gifts, and the only reason it doesn't surprise her they haven't all died is because she assumes Banner also is caring for and watering them as well.

She takes hour long showers, but never washes her hair. Or anything for that matter. She finds herself standing under the shower head, and time slips by her just like the water does off her shoulder, down the drain.

She knows Stark is having Jarvis surveillance her.

Books remain untouched, only ever dusted (by Banner).

There's two picture frames in her room, and one has been set face down. Even Banner won't touch it.

She trains, in the mornings after her hour of 'sleep' (they always end in some fitful nightmare that jolts her awake and aware quickly). The sun rises an hour or two after that, in which she makes her sole appearance amongst the others, to grab water or a fruit, if she feels up to eating. Sometimes, she'll prepare herself a bowl of cereal, pour a glass of orange juice and everything, and then leave it untouched after a bite or two or none.

Then she returns to training. Or sitting in her room. Alone. Always alone.

Except with Clint.

Sometimes, Clint will be with her, when he can. She doesn't know where he goes, when he's not with her. She doesn't know what any of them do when she's not with them-not anymore.

She'll talk to him, the most out of all of them. But even then, they spend so many hours in silence. Sometimes, without looking up, she doesn't know if Clint is still there or not.

Then again, she always knows when he's there.

* * *

_But then_

_I started learning_

_And then you started a yearning_

_With your very sweet persuasion_

_With your very sweet persuasion_

* * *

"Have you eaten yet?"

She doesn't answer. She's curled on top of the sheets. On her side of the bed. His are neat; untouched. He's standing in that corner, staring out the window again. She wishes he'd just look at her, for once. His eyes never seem to find her.

"No." She finally answers, honestly.

"You should eat something. When's the last time you did?" He asks casually.

That she doesn't answer, because she can't. She doesn't remember.

"Why won't you eat?" He asks, his eyes searching the night sky for stars he'll never see in the city.

"I hate walking down the hall."

He scoffs lightly at that. It's an irrational fear, one that has never bothered her before.

"Do you want me to hold your hand down the hall?" He jokes.

"Yes." She answers, serious.

He doesn't reply.

* * *

"Natasha...we were, ah...we were going to go out this afternoon-"

"-Have fun."

She doesn't mean it.

"Well, no, I mean...did, did you want to come with us?"

This puzzles her, briefly.

"Where?"

"Well, we were going to stop by_"

She could've just said no. They both know it, but instead, she stands up, quick as a whip, and -in a show of self-restraint- leaves. Her fists are shaking, and she's proud of herself for not knocking something over on her way out, but she holds no regrets in how she acted. She doesn't think he deserved a response to that kind of question. Ridiculous!

She tries desperately to pretend she doesn't hear the others leave the tower, and she refuses to watch the window, to watch them leave and drive off in a direction she looks to frequently.

Clint comes up behind her, when all else is still.

She knows she didn't have to act that way; refuse in such a way. Steve was being considerate. It's not like he was demanding anything out of her, unreasonably, though she acted like such. He was just asking if she wanted-

"You didn't go with them?" She asks, cutting herself off mid-thought.

He shrugs and looks off in the same direction that she can't bring herself to look in.

"I'll meet 'em there later."

* * *

She feels in good spirits, that afternoon in particular. She sits up in bed and eyes the bow and quiver that haven't been touched.

"Teach me."

"I can't."

She pouts, but only slightly.

"Why not?"

"I've tried to, before. Remember? You never had the attention," his last comment is slightly muffled, under his breath. She watches him, turned away from her, and catches him blink.

She thinks she can't remember seeing him blink in so long, and it's a strange thought but it's true.

She's fascinated.

He's hasn't seemed so alive, for such a long time, until this moment; when he blinks.

* * *

The mission is a success. The target practically drools on her the moment she introduces herself and within the duration of half a waltz, he's already inviting her to his private room. The only hitch comes when she's distracted, staring at Clint by the punch table. He's not looking at her; he's trying to talk to some petite blonde who isn't giving him the time of day. The blonde sips absently at her wine glass, like Clint isn't even there. He doesn't look discouraged, though-

"Madame?"

Natasha jumps a little and smiles, taking the offered hand of her victim.

Twenty minutes later, she has the code memorized and the gentleman is unconscious in his underwear on his bed. His lackeys will find him in a couple of hours.

Clint is waiting for her in the car when she returns.

"What was that blonde's name?"

He shrugs, absently looking out the window.

"Don't know."

* * *

The car ride is quiet. The limo driver is actually an agent in disguise. Natasha shifts a bit in her dress, adjusting the mink at her shoulder that's too old fashion for her but is essential for this throw back gala event she's attending. Her cover is as uninteresting and bland as they all are. A helpless woman with a lusting eye for any man with a large enough pocket to satisfy her.

She's just grateful Rogers isn't on this mission with her.

The radio barely seeps through the window from the front, some classic oldies from an era she wasn't born in.

"You like this song, remember? We should turn it up," Clint suggests, sitting across from her. His eyes are out the window, watching cars and streets and people blur by as the car speeds on.

Natasha doesn't respond and the radio remains quiet, the driver focusing solely on the route he's been cleared to take.

* * *

_And I couldn't dream you up_

_I couldn't dream you_

_No, I couldn't dream you up_

_I couldn't dream you_

* * *

Whatever reserves Rogers has about Natasha being in the field, and however many times he's complained such to Fury (Because there is no doubt in Natasha's mind that he has been doing so), they must have reached a compromise. Because Fury, slowly but surely, assigns Natasha to a mission, one after the next. But, they're simple missions. Gathering information, low risk; it's what she's best at, and it's what he can trust her with.

"You're getting out more, at least. It's what you wanted, isn't it? Right, Nat..?"

"-Don't." She snaps, and it's the most hostile she's sounded. She doesn't want to be called that, not now.

"Alright, Natasha."

She closes her eyes and tries to calm herself. She had been startled, but she's fine. She's fine.

When she opens her eyes, Clint is gone, and the only company she has is the file in front of her that explains her new cover and target.

"Are you are Steve arguing again?" Clint asks, eyeing the window again like some cloud in the sky is just the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. Natasha is just as absently watching the still coffee in her cup grow cold.

"Why?" She doesn't deny it.

"You two don't seem to be talking."

"_We're_ talking."

"_I'm_ not Steve."

It has to do with their last mission; he's not happy with her, but he'll get over it. She doesn't give a damn of what he thinks.

"Whatever." She sips at the coffee. That's a mistake. It's lost any heat and she quickly pulls the cup away from her, disgusted.

Barton knew it would be.

* * *

There's a cut on her arm and she feels blood pulsing out of it with each heartbeat. The blast from before shook her. She'd nearly lost it; control of the Quinjet. A window has blown out and the glass nicked her arm. She tries to steady her hand, because you can't be shaky and land a Quinjet, and right now she really needs to land the Quinjet.

At least she's the only one in the Quinjet; the others dropped off and are waiting for her pick-up.

Clint is there, in her ear, calmly giving her directions

"Steady yourself...breathe, c'mon, it'll be okay. Just land this sonofabitch, you can do it. Like in practice, you got it."

"I'm not a kid..."

She lets out a stream of air. She's not as good as him when it comes to flying, but he's spent enough hours training her that it'd be a shame if she wasn't capable of a mediocre landing at best.

"How's that arm of yours?"

"Let's not talk about that," she warns. She needs to focus on flying.

"Right. Focus on flying then."

The Quinjet lands and she powers it down, unbuckling her seat in a swift motion and jumping out as the hangar opens. Steve sprints to the cover of the Quinjet, dodging heavy fire as he dives at the opening.

"Damn it, Natasha! Why'd you take your earpiece out?!"

Natasha doesn't even glance back at the discarded device flung somewhere behind her seat.

"I needed to focus."

* * *

She hasn't been outside; not since her last mission. Steve must have said something to Fury; passed along some hidden evaluation. Fury keeps telling her 'there's nothing currently-'

Bullshit.

She'll call him out on it, tomorrow. She'll march onto base, fully suited and armed, and she'll find a mission herself if she needs to.

Turns out, she doesn't need to. Terrorist attack leaves Fury desperate, quickly, and the Tower is called upon. It's so sudden, even Steve doesn't have time to argue.

Natasha straps herself into the pilot seat, and the others buckle behind her. She doesn't have time to think; she needs to concentrate. This is what she wanted; a mission. To go outside.

"Rain check on our date?" Barton quips from behind her, but there isn't a hint of laughter in his voice. She snarls, because now isn't the time. She needs to focus.

* * *

_Very sweet persuasion_

_With your very sweet persuasion_

_With your very sweet persuasion_

_With your very sweet persuasion_

* * *

"Don't." He warns.

She's eyeing the knife but he knows she's too proud to do it. She's too strong a person. She hasn't gotten this far, being this damaged, without overcoming that temptation long ago.

"Where are the others?" She asks, ignoring him.

He shrugs.

"I don't know."

She doesn't know either.

It's quiet in the tower, so Stark obviously is out. Banner might be deep in the labs, working out some world problem or other. Steve could be in the tower, but she doubts it. He gets out as often as he can. He has to, or it'll drive him mad.

Sometimes, she thinks she's going mad, too. Maybe she should get out of the tower more often.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Barton asks.

He means it as a tease, a joke playing against her latest revelation, but it has the opposite effect on her. No, she doesn't want to go walking. Now she just feels bitter and angry, so she snaps back, "What? Like a date?"

She hates peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; she doesn't know why she's making one.

He shrugs again, his eyes focused on a bird perched on a gargoyle across the sky; she assumes as much, at least.

"Sure."

* * *

"If Steve asks me one more time if I'm alright-"

"Nat, he means well..."

Natasha grumbles, because she can't argue with that and because she doesn't want to. She's tired of talking about Steve, or any of the others for that matter. She's just tired.

"Look at me." She demands, staring at him from across the room, from her position on her bed. She's propped herself up by her elbow, casually, while he's in a chair across the room, sitting with his back to her.

He ignores her, instead, "will you eat?"

She smirks.

"Only if you look at me."

She's pushed it too much, and he doesn't turn her way. Her smirk fades, and she throws her head back and tries to sleep instead, but sleep never comes and she blames it on her apparent hunger.

He wins.

* * *

"Is everything alright?" Steve asks in passing, the next chance he sees Natasha. "I heard you talking-"

"Am I supposed to be silent?" Natasha asks bluntly.

"No-no, I meant-!"

Natasha doesn't wait to hear what he meant. She's down the hall and back in her room before he can stutter out any other offensive question.

He probably wants to chastise her. Don't talk about me behind my back, she imagines him asking; politely, of course. He treats her so delicately-

"You should have heard him out, at least," Clint warns when she sees him next.

She knows that.

"Shut up," she snaps.

And he does.

"He's just trying to help," Barton supplies, and it feels so good to hear his voice, Natasha thinks. She closes her eyes, her hands gripping either side of the sink, and she feels her body riveting. Barton is behind her-she doesn't see him, but she knows. She knows he's not looking at her, either. He's starring beyond her, out the window or at the wall or something.

"I know," she finally sighs, and she opens her eyes and sure enough, in the mirror before her, she can see Barton, standing against the wall in her bedroom and looking absently out the window.

It's comforting, and she smiles, just seeing him here, and maybe the past week has been too difficult and that's why she feels so emotional right now because she can feel tears well in her eyes, briefly, before she blinks them back and straightens herself up.

He doesn't say anything else, but it's enough. Having him with her is just enough.

* * *

"Natasha! Are you alright?"

Natasha blows a loose strand of hair from her face in annoyance.

"Rogers, don't worry about me. Focus on the task in front of us."

Steve curtly nods, but it's odd hearing her give a serious order about 'focusing' to Mr. Soldier himself.

Against Steve's wishes, Fury granted Natasha return to the field. Rogers argued enough to get himself assigned to the same mission with her, for observance, and until now she seemed as composed and normal, and heartless, as usual. But, now she's breaking, and he's concerned when she lands a kick to her attacker's stomach and then stumbles afterwards.

"That blow…"

She'd taken a nasty one to the back of the head. He wonders why she didn't see it coming, though then again he hadn't either. There were no eyes above or behind them to warn them-

"I'm fine!" She snaps and then pushes forward, breaking into a run and he has to quickly adjust his pace to keep up or get lost. He'll confront her about it, later. Everything is not alright, and her lying about it is almost sickening; it's insulting.

* * *

A week passes and she hasn't left her room. Banner leaves meals outside her door. Stark approaches the door, meaning to knock, but never does. Pepper dares to, and she'll ask how Natasha is or if she needs anything. Natasha never responds, but Pepper did once get her to take a shower, which is more than any of the others have managed to convince her. If Thor was here, they can only imagine he wouldn't be of any help either.

Steve avoids her, but at the end of the week he finally steps into her room and the others don't know what is said, but several hours' later Steve exits and less than an hour after that, Natasha surfaces as well.

Natasha is grateful, for everything the others have done for her. She's grateful that Fury granted her leave, but in her head she knows tomorrow she'll barge into his office and demand the band to be lifted. He'll have to agree. She's too important to keep out of the field, and she needs the distraction.

In her head, she can't believe how foolish she's been acting. Grieving? Since when did the Black Widow ever grieve?

In her head, she tells herself it's alright to smile; force herself to, so the others think she's "healing".

And in her room, when she returns after having forced herself to swallow down steak that tasted like ash, Clint is waiting.

* * *

_I couldn't dream you up_

_I couldn't dream you up_

_I couldn't dream you up_

_No, I couldn't dream you_

* * *

The funeral is held a day later. It's a proper, military funeral but without a body, it's short.

The attendance is few. Shield can't spare the soldiers. There is no family.

Natasha stands through it all, like a statue, dressed in black and she's never looked so out of place.

There's a veil over her eyes, like she's a mourning bride.

She is the Black Widow.

She says nothing. Not to the guests, not to the grave. Her eyes never leave the headstone. She doesn't flinch when a flock of geese settle into the lake beside the grave. She doesn't stir when the wind whips through the cemetery, reaching to the back where this particular grave resides.

She simply stands through it all, and once it's over, she slips into her car and gives the driver curt instructions to drive her to the tower.

And that's the end of the funeral.

* * *

"What happened?" Stark snaps at Steve, the moment he finds him. Steve throws a glance to Natasha, through the glass window of the door. She's lying perfectly still on the cot, looking at the floor.

Steve sighs and returns to face Stark.

"I don't know-"

"What the _hell_ happened?!" Stark tries again, yelling this time but Steve doesn't flinch. He'd rather Stark took out all his anger, all his frustration, on Steve rather than approach Natasha.

Stark glares at Steve and his eyes glisten briefly with tears. Stark quickly looks down, suddenly aware of his feet. He balls his fists but holds them to his sides.

Rogers hasn't seen Banner yet. He's probably cooling off; sleeping or just trying to de-green himself.

He saw Fury, in passing, but the only acknowledgement he got was a curt nod of the director's head before he moved on to give orders to the agents who were swarming in to clean up.

Steve doesn't mind that no one seems to be able to look him in the eye.

* * *

The briefing doesn't go too well. She tells Rogers she can handle it, but a minute in, she has to excuse herself and he finds her in the hallway, hyperventilating dangerously. She becomes lightheaded, trying to stand, and passes out. He's grateful for it, though.

She needs sleep; rest.

Stark talks to Fury while Steve takes Natasha to the medical wing. He sits up by her until she reawakens.

Her eyes snap awake the second she stirs and she remembers everything; she realizes what this means. There are still tears in her eyes but they're controlled. They won't fall. The shock is passing and she's composing herself, rebuilding the wall that had been shattered mere hours ago. And Steve watches in horror as she closes herself off from the world, and he fears he'll never see her again.

She glances at Steve briefly, nods in acknowledgement and gratitude, and begins to sit up.

Steve has a hand on her shoulder before she can fully sit straight, pushing gently at her to stay down.

She opens her mouth to protest, but Rogers isn't even looking at her, and he's not about to argue. Her voice is lost anyway.

She nods once and lies back down. Steve stands and exits the room, leaving Natasha alone.

* * *

Steve finds her; finds them. They're both still and pale and he fears for both of them, until he sees her turn her head, ever so slightly, to look at him. The look in her eyes says it all, and Steve stumbles to a stop several steps from them.

Clint looks asleep at her back, except for his eyes. They're open, but they're not looking at Steve, or Nat, or anyone or anything. They look beyond.

Stark's voice breaks over the com link and he's asking for a roll call. Is everyone alright? That last blast caught them all by surprise, but the situation has been handled; everything is taken care of and accounted for. It's over. Why isn't anyone responding? Don't tell me you're all sitting around and made me do all the wo-

Steve answers back, cuts Stark off. It's a plea but the urgency in his voice when he snaps says more than Steve can bring himself to.

Stark understands, because his next word is hushed, quiet and even a little scared.

"Natasha..?"

Steve doesn't answer Tony immediately. Instead, he approaches Natasha, because they need to go now. The building is collapsing; they need to escape now.

They need to leave…

* * *

"How are you doing back there?" She breathes.

She feels the pulse of his body, ragged breadths as his chest heaves and nostrils whistle. Back to back, he leans heavily against her, his fingers shaking as he fidgets to fit in a final round of ammo in his handheld. She does the same, slightly quicker and far more composed.

"I've got your back," Is all he mutters back, but she hears the gurgle of blood and it's followed quickly by a spit. She won't turn around-she refuses to look at him. Because she'll break if she catches even a glimpse of his too-pale face, drained of blood, or the bone that is baring its way from his arm. She feels no heat through her back, where he's slumped heavier against her than she is on him.

"This is nothing," she jests, but there isn't a hint of truth in those words and she's less convinced than he is in them. Still, he tries to chuckle, to acknowledge her joke, but it comes out a quick, sharp breadth. She'll take it, though.

"I don't know about you, but I'm cashing in my vacation days. The moment we get back," He grunts, trying to lighten the mood.

They're not getting back. Well, not both of them, anyway.

Natasha slowly nods, her eyes fixated at every corner and sight in front of her, alert for any sign of movement.

"I'm thinking somewhere south...warm."

"We'll have Tony pay all expenses. He owes me, you know?" Natasha quips. Barton smirks, nodding slowly but it's more like his head dozing off, unable to remain supported by his neck. Everything is just so heavy.

"Still got my back, right?" Natasha warns. She'll be damned if he goes to sleep on her. Not now.

Another grunt. Shit, she thinks.

"He'll try to tag along, Stark will," She jokes, but there's a tint of morbid truth in it and she can't help the shiver that involuntarily runs down her spine. "But, he's not coming-" She almost jokes 'over her dead body'. But, that would only invite Barton to make a snide, uncreative, remark that she would rather not hear at this moment.

He knows it, too, because he catches the hitch in her breadth and fills in her hesitation with the words. Being sympathetic, he says nothing, letting her continue.

"Banner can come," She finally continues. Barton's breadth slows and his back muscles relax-the ones he still could control. She knows he can't feel his waist down-it's why they're sitting in the first place, like helpless animals waiting to be put out of their misery.

"He deserves a vacation, too. Warm weather, might help relax him," She jokes, forcing herself to laugh. But it's not funny and it's too forced. But it doesn't matter what she says-so long as she says something, anything. Barton's shoulder twitches, his hand dropping, and she knows he no longer aims his last resort weapon. Her fingers curl at the trigger of her own and her body tenses.

"Too bad Thor isn't here. He'd love the location, I think. I'm thinking...the Caribbean, or one of the islands. Hell, Stark probably bought a private one. He's a clever bastard; he'll probably ransom the island to allow himself to be included in the vacation."

Tears form at the corner of her eyes, but none fall. Not yet; she blinks them back.

"Is that alright? Could you be a-alright with...with it? I-if Stark tagged along? I-" She started laughing; "I promise we'll ditch him at the beaches! You and m-me, we'll run off, there's enough b-beach to go around."

Her lips turn into a frown and she grinds her teeth, holding back a blood curling scream when she feels Barton go solidly limp behind her. She refuses to turn around.

"Nat..." He mutters. She holds her breadth and waits for him to continue, to say something. To give her some loving speech in which he confesses everything, or he tells her it'll be alright or that he's fine. Or he says one last witty remark or stupid joke and she hits him because now isn't the time.

He doesn't speak again.

"W-we could teach S-Steve to w-w-water ski! You liked w-water-skiing, remember? Back in Dubai? Y-you begged me t-to tr-try it out..."

Now the tears fall, because Barton isn't saying anything. No snide remarks, no side-mutters. He's perfectly still and silent and she waits for him to jerk awake so she can whip around and hit him for playing such a dirty joke on her.

"Clint, c'mon..."

She wants to turn around, to grip him by the head and slap him; keep him awake. Keep him alive-

"Clint...Come back, Clint...y-you can't..."

The Captain finds her ten minutes later, sprinting to slide kneeling at her side, shaking her shoulders and demanding she stands up.

"C-can't...I-I'm watching C-Clint's back...H-he's got mine-"

Her voice catches in her throat and she isn't bothered by how weak or vulnerable or broken she looks. Because Steve has yanked her to her feet and is dragging her in the opposite direction. They have to go, there is no time. As they retreat, she catches a final look at Barton, her ears ringing in silence despite her screaming protests that they can't leave him-he's got her back.

Barton's eyes are still open, half-lidded; grey and lifeless as he watches the hall, keeping up watch. He doesn't look at her.

* * *

**A/N: **Soo~ This chapter. This song is one of the prettiest songs on the album-Not necessarily one of my favorites, but definitely one of the prettiest. Originally, the one shot set up for this story was more...light. It was more focused from Natasha's point of view, as this one still is (I felt the song was better represented from her point of view than Clint's) but it was a lot more fluffy and loving~. Cept, in my last one shot, Natasha was very OOC, so I tried to fix that in this chapter (I may have been still way off the mark though -_- In fact, I think I was...) Also, this one shot tied in better with the lyrics, in an ironic and even a more literal sense. So, sorry that the happy chapter was sacrificed in place of this one :p

I understand this one shot may have been very confusing; I wanted to try this kind of story that went backwards and I probably made it too dramatic, trying to keep it interesting and have some big reveal moment, so in all honesty, if this chapter didn't quite work for those of you who read through it, then I'm sorry :I

The gist of the story is that, yes, Clint is dead and Natasha is hallucinating him with her the whole time. None of the other Avengers ever see or hear him. That's an idea! Try reading the chapter, but exclude all of Clint's actions/dialogues! (JK; Ya'll have probably had enough of this chapter, regardless if you read it more than once :p)

The last scene, of Clint's death, originally was much shorter and had far less dialogue. The version you're reading was a drabble I'd typed up back in December, which I adjusted slightly and integrated into this story. Originally, Clint dies in Natasha's arms, which is overdone and cliche and I always liked the idea he dies not physically within her arms, but close enough except she can't, or doesn't, look at him or see him pass..

The idea of Natasha pretty much going AWOL within shield and becoming a serial killer, and getting away with it, has never sat well with me. It bothered me, and several times I tried to write it out or replace it. In all honesty? I liked the confrontation scene better Natasha, Banner and Clint too much to cut it. That aprt is the most OOC part for me, and I'm sorry if you all found it to be, as well.

The scene where Steve asks if Natasha wants to join them-They're going to visit Clint's grave. I tried to leave enough of a hint at that, but in case you couldn't pick up on that...also, "Hansen's" grave is really Clint's.

Speaking of the others, I'm not too happy with how little there is of them. Steve seemed to pop up a lot; His temperament just seemed right in the scenes that I needed someone else to counter Natasha, and I really wish I'd have incorporated Banner and Stark and everyone else better in this story.

That said, It was really difficult, typing this story! I kept adding scenes and dialogue and paragraphs, trying to beef it up, except the pacing and direction would get skewed so I kept having to cut whatever new I'd typed. The fact it's so short (What am I saying? This used to be a fine length for me! I've been spoiling myself with these 20,000 word or so chapters! :) bothers me, but again, I was stumped on what more to add or adjust so I thought I'd better just post it.

There's so much more I could say about this chapter, but it's late (early; nearly 5 am where I'm at); I tried to write this chapter backwards, but keeping in mind that I didn't want to give away the reveal until the end (Though I'm sure you could guess it from the beginning). Because I knew the whole time what was going on, and I was writing it backwards, It was difficult to put myself in the shoes of the reader, reading this chapter for the first time, to really see what needed work or what needed clarification. So, again, leave reviews or message me or whatever in response if this chapter just confused the hell out of you! Thank you!

My final note is that this chapter was very focused on Natasha, being from her point of view and really being about her transition of overcoming Clint's death. I know Clint played, obviously, a huge part in this story, but you can't deny this chapter was more Natasha-focused. I hope you all don't feel too betrayed by it, however. She's obviously been a major character in every other one shot and several times, the story has been from her point of view or has revolved around her; I just felt I should go ahead and acknowledge that Clint took a passenger seat in this story, in case anyone felt slightly cheated, since this one shot collection is supposed to be of Clint (Or is it? Did I somewhere specifically say such? Most likely, and really they are; Still, Natasha is listed as the second character and I don't think any of you will mind much, but just in case~!)

Again, sorry about this chapter! I don't know what to expect, so review or message or just read! All I can ask for is that you enjoyed this chapter, and if you didn't then I'm sorry! I've only got two chapters left; Maybe I'm setting the bar low with this chapter so the last two will exceed your expectations! And finally, thank you to all who have reviewed or faved this story! Mostly thank you for reading it!


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